Limitations of Virtue
by CorvidaeTigris
Summary: Clopin is once again in prison, only this time someone has a very intriguing idea to get him out. Leads to a tale interwoven with politics, sex, and power in a world on the edge of metamorphosis. Adult themes implied; M rating for 3rd chapt only.
1. An Unexpected Proposal

The Limitations of Virtue

Fandom: Hunchback of Notre Dame

Pairing: Clopin/OC

Author: corvidae333/wanderkind0

Rating: PG-13 for now

Summary: Clopin is once again in prison, only this time someone has a very intriguing idea to get him out. Adult themes implied. Later, they will be explicit.

It was the third day of his capture and Clopin was already very bored with everything from teasing the guards to reading the gypsy code carved all over his cold stone cell. Such markings were all too predictable, revealing only insults towards the captors and intimate opinions regarding any number of women. His only amusing thoughts were that probably he'd had half the women discussed on the wall. He might be 36 and out of his prime but he was still capable of finding sex whenever he wanted it. With pleasant thoughts of ripped bodices and miller's daughters, he dosed off and began to feel warmer than he actually was.

Clopin was later awoken by the sound of a harsh banging noise on his cell door. One eye half-open, he saw that it was one of the guards and a very striking noblewoman. Wait…he'd seen her before. At festivals years previous she accompanied a Baron from somewhere in the Germanic country. He remembered finding the Baron, by appearance, a very dull and stiff fellow. "Oi! Gypsy! The lady wants a word with you!" the guard's gravely and coarse voice ejected. Clopin roused himself and sat up, curious what she could possibly want. He found her interest in him very amusing indeed and it took great will-power to avoid the grin his cheeks were insisting upon very determinedly at the moment. "Good morning, ma cherie. I'm sure it's finding you better than I. What on God's Earth would you with an old rascal and charlatan? You should know in advance that I don't do dinner parties." Normally his use of the intimate pet name ('ma cherie') would've cause a patroness such as herself before him to blush or fluster or call for the guards. But she would none. Her stare was implacable and unshaken. Certainly she was not a woman to toy with, but of course this merely instilled further desire in Clopin to do just that.

"You are Clopin. I have seen you at every festival I have attended here in Paris. I hear you are a notorious vagabond gypsy."

"I have not forgot myself, Madame. As the saying goes, however, 'gypsies don't do well behind stone walls.' Surely you must see how they make me wilt from their austerity, how they take the sparkle from my eyes and take away what merriment a man may have alone and unaccompanied." His ending euphemism was intended as a second try to put her ill-at-ease, but again it failed.

"Then by this account it would seem you are no longer a gypsy." It seemed she managed to turn his intentions against him and it was he who let out a loud laugh. He did catch, however, that she could not hide a smirk.

"I have employment for you if you are interested."

Clopin's smile faded and he gave her a look that was still curious, but also suspicious. "What makes you think I want employment?" he laughed coldly, "what makes you think I or any of my kind wants your despicable charity?"

She was not shaken. "Because firstly it will get you out of your morose stone walls; secondly, your pay will be handsome. And I dare say this sort of work will not put you in a place of ridicule with your people."

"Oh, indeed? And you know all about 'my people', I shall assume. I detest your offer still, but my curiosity beckons me to ask: what manner of employment is this?" Cynicism colored his tone.

She thought a moment before answering, and then without the slightest bit of shame she told him, "If you agree, I would expect you this very evening at my bedside, and that is all you shall hear for now. You have two hours to decide." She moved to place her large, elegant hood over her rich, chocolate brown hair.

Clopin chuckled, still looking suspicious. "I admit I am not clear on the particulars, Madame, but I'm sure you must guess that I would make a terrible nurse."

She crouched down near to where he lounged on the floor, her voice taking on a warmer, huskier tone than before and looking him penetratingly in the eye. "I don't need you to nurse me." And with that she left. After a few moments of astonishment, Clopin burst out laughing in his disbelief.

When she returned two hours later, she found him just as he was when she'd left. "I will have your answer."

Clopin longed to tease her, but decided against it for the moment. If he got on her bad side, he wouldn't be able to take advantage of the freedom she was offering him. He stroked his beard and glanced at her sideways. Maybe he would take his freedom without any intention of doing what she asked.

"If you're not interested, then I am not interested in standing here any longer." She turned to leave.

God's wounds, she drove a hard bargain! "Wait, wait, wait, please wait, ma cherie, I have given no answer!" he chuckled, surprised by her assertiveness yet again. He studied her. "Why with all the law-abiding citizens in Paris do you come after someone such as me?"

That little smirk appeared on her mouth again. "I prefer something a little more dangerous."

"Surely, your husband the Baron would object, no?"

"Most certainly. But for the sake of virtue, we have separate bedchambers, and he is away most weeks. He is an excellent husband. But I am not looking for a husband."

"You have complaints? Does he make love like a monk? How can this make him an excellent husband?"

"His money makes him an excellent husband. Let us say he is decidedly interested only in his accounts and his God."

He looked her up and down now, unsure if he was doing so because he was warming significantly to her proposal, or if he was merely trying to make her think that he was.

"I pity you Madame. As a Christian woman, you seem to have little appreciation for virtue, your husband is a dullard, and you must come to scoundrels such as myself to satisfy your baser instincts."

It was a slight, but she seemed also to know that he was teasing her. Besides, the talk of baser instincts was causing her to flush. Showing that she was not sensitive to his insult, she countered, "Merely as noble women of ancient Rome would seek the services of gladiators."

Clopin laughed. "I see…gladiator…"

"You're hardly a gladiator. But I dare say you'll do."

"I am not a whore, Madame."

"No, but you _are_ a gypsy. You live outside our laws."

He looked her in the eyes, considering her proposal a little more seriously now. Maybe just once. A chance to bed a Baroness with looks as fierce yet refined as hers? It was once-in-a-lifetime. Maybe just the once, and then he'd disappear. After a few moments, Clopin held out his hand just behind the bars and she reached in and took it. "Madame, you have a deal." He turned her hand to place a lingering kiss on the underside of her wrist. Her gaze was fire. Reeling herself back in she stood to take her leave. "I will inform the guard. They will accompany you to my residence."

He smirked at her. "You don't trust me?"

She smirked back. "I am not a simpleton."

"No, Madame. That you are not."


	2. A Tentative Meeting

Part 2

When he arrived at the door of the mystery woman's estate, a German style _schloss_, he immediately recognized the owner's character in its architecture: practical, not flamboyant; grounded and sturdy, not facetious and delicate. A middle-aged woman, obviously a servant, greeted them at the large, intricately carved oaken doors. She was a stern little woman with graying hair, and her only greeting was a nod of her head and the word, "Come." The guards made to enter with their captive, hoping for some wine and hospitality, but the woman pointed her finger at them. "Here now, my mistress won't have you in her estate no more. Not after last time your like was here. Go on, then."

Grumbling to themselves, the guards left Clopin with the old bat.

Once inside, Clopin immediately felt ill-at-ease. Normally if he was anywhere near such a place as this, it was because he and his band were making an attempt at robbery. He did have to admit, looking at the ornamentation and the valuables in plenty, his fingers itched to snatch something away. But he would wait to do that. The serving woman was none too trusting and seemed like she had the eyes of a hawk. After traveling up a grand staircase, they eventually stopped at a door. "My mistress awaits you beyond this door."

Clopin nodded and was reaching for the latch when the old woman suddenly placed a forceful hand in his chest. "Mark me, gypsy," she whispered threateningly. "If you so much as harm a hair on her head, yours will be on a chopping block faster than you can say 'ingrate.'" He was not afraid of her, but he noted her none the less.

Once inside, his hostess was no where immediately to be found. He found himself in her boudoir, a rich bed dressed with silks from the Orient. The momentary idea of making love on a bed like that gave him that lovely stirring of anticipation in his belly. He removed his gauntlets and had set about touring the room, when he heard the voice of his hostess from behind him. "I'm glad to see you've come." She wore a large, flowing silk robe of green. Her hair was bundled on the sides of her head in thick braids, and a red and gold circlet was wrapped about her forehead.

He smiled. "You left me little choice."

"As a matter of fact I did. It's merely that one option has conditions."

He approached with a slight swagger, which made him no less charming. "And what conditions, may I ask, are there for being your lover?"

Her eyes clouded momentarily with lust. "Only that you come to me. And perhaps avoid stealing my possessions."

"Aha. And when am I to come to you? How? Like a dog that runs when he's called?"

"I rather suspect you are more like a cat than a dog. A cat will only give respect to the call that has earned it…or one must tempt it with something agreeable…But I have no design on making you a slave to my word, Clopin. It would take away too much of your appeal."

He leaned lazily against a dresser and perused the treasures upon it with disinterest. "What manner of appeal you see in me, Lady, I am most curious."

She gazed at him in thought as he grinned at her. He was looking for flattery, but he would get the truth. "You have a freedom which I lack. I must follow the laws of virtue, or at least appear to do so, lest I suffer my husband's abandonment and therefore all that I have."

"And yet you have brought me to your bed."

"I freed you from your imprisonment, and you will free me from mine."

He laughed. "And such a prison! A German castle with all finery from all over the earth? You would trade it for a gypsy's life?"

"Perhaps not. But my will is strong and I am forbidden to exercise it. You know as much as you might enjoy this security and comfort, you would never trade it for your freedom to behave and be as you wish. A life of virtue is as much a prison as stone walls if one is not suited for it."

"And you are not?"

"If my husband knew half the thoughts in my head, he'd call me a libertine and have me excommunicated."

Her eyes were positively alive, as if she'd been wishing for years to say aloud who she truly was, and Clopin couldn't help finding her refreshing. His smirk reached his eyes as he drew close, placing his hands on her waist. "In that case, ma cherie, you could have chosen no better man to free you from virtue."

There was a moment of stillness and then the Baroness gently clasped the back of his head and pulled him into a blood-pounding kiss. When she finally released him, the two of them panting, she went to a door to the next room. "Come," she beckoned. And like a cat having caught a whiff of something very agreeable, come he did.


	3. Fire, Water, Steam

LoV part 3

The room she led him to was full of steam and it was only after a few minutes that he could see where she'd brought him. Before them laid into the floor was a large brass tub in which hot water was piping from a spout. He'd never seen anything like it.

"I insisted on building the schloss in this very place because of the hot springs," the Baroness explained. "The water will never get cold." She turned to him and slipped off his hat, then his doublet and chemise shirt. He let her run her hands over his brown skin, the steam and her touch causing his breath to quicken. He pressed his body against hers and met her mouth with another fiery kiss. She returned it with all the ferocity he could've hoped for. She pulled away, staring into his half-lidded gaze as she slowly unfastened the knot around her waist. Clopin watched with desire as her silk robe slipped from her shoulders and revealed her naked body. She was more voluptuous than most of the women he'd been with, poor and starving as they had been; and her skin was the very ideal of nobility: white as pearl. Instead of coming to him, however, she slipped into the hot water and from there beckoned to him like a siren. Chuckling, he shook his head at her, a playful look in his eye, and undressed himself while she watched. He slid into the hot water and growled as he took her in his arms, kissing and nipping at her neck. For a few minutes, she lost herself in sensation, but then gently pushed him away. "Please, let's make this last as long as we can."

He laughed in astonishment. "Madame, we have barely begun."

"I know, but I have been deprived of sensual pleasures for too long. If you continued, I would have thrown myself upon you and the act would be done in a matter of minutes." She smiled deviously at him, like a tigress eyeing her prey. "Please forgive me."

"Lady, I am the gypsy king of Paris." His voice was a purr. "We gypsies better than all gentiles know the value of long love-making. Surely you know why so many a maid or otherwise has succumbed to us." He winked at her.

"Why else would I have sought you?" she smiled. Sitting upon a shallow ridge of stone, she gestured for him to come to her. "Come, lie against me." Clopin had no qualms about doing as she asked and came over to place himself between her legs, his head leaning back against her chest. Next he knew, she was rubbing something into his hair which emanated a pleasing and exotic scent. He sighed at her soothing fingers massaging his scalp. Her hands wandered lower to his neck and shoulders, down his chest to his belly. His breath grew ragged. "Madame, restraint is not a talent of mine…"

One of her fingers teased his ear as she admired his golden earring. She stared mesmerized as he panted and purred. Her husband was never so vocal, never so revealing in his sexuality. The aroused gypsy was easily the most erotic thing she'd ever seen.

"Please Madame, I can take this no longer!" he groaned and turned to face her, looking her devilishly in the eye. "I must have you."

She gave no resistance, but threw herself into his arms in a fit of lust, wrapping a leg around his waist. He pressed her down onto the stone floor with a lazy kiss and in an instant they were joined. She thrust her hips into his and wrapped her legs around him, pressing against his body to induce him to go deeper. He was far more experienced than Johann was, and he knew just…the right…angle…

Sparks of the most wonderful sensations hit her every time he moved within her. It seemed miraculous to her, as intercourse with Johann was always short, without care, and painful. She felt fully justified for her cuckoldry. She deserved to enjoy herself and the gypsy at the very least was interested in foreplay. As a matter of fact, she reveled in the fact that poor, dull Johann was probably in Freiburg either checking the payments of his tenants or at church, thinking his wife engaged in pious reflection and respectable diversion, and here she was with a deliciously vivacious, exotic man, his tea-brown body doing things Johann's never would. It was laughable; so laughable she nearly laughed out loud herself.

Clopin was blissfully aware that he hadn't had such a good doing for a long time. Though she'd been married for several years, that dullard had never done the deed properly, and she felt practically like a virgin. Not that he was in the habit of deflowering virgins: he infinitely preferred a woman who knew what she was doing. Then there was the thrill and hilarity he found in the fact that he was fucking a Baroness. If this didn't give him bragging rights, then he didn't know what did! Suddenly, he felt her muscles tightening around him. He groaned and thought he wasn't going to last much longer, but knew he'd be disappointed in himself if he couldn't let her take her full pleasure, too. The poor woman was deprived enough of something she so clearly craved. In an effort to distract himself, he leaned down and buried his face in her neck.

"Ah, Clopin," she whispered, "faster…"

Clopin gave a tormented-sounding laugh. "Oh, I would, _ma cher_, but ahh…I fear I will…"

Understanding what he meant, she surprised him by sitting up and gently manipulating both of their bodies so that _his_ back was now on the stone and she astride him. He nearly laughed in his surprise: he'd only experienced this position once from another gypsy from Turkey. Most women were unfamiliar with it or found it too blasphemous. He, however, loved that it let him gaze on her gorgeous, regal body with her hair coming loose and dripping in strands down her shoulders. She groaned and her muscles contracted again, and again. On the verge of her orgasm she opened her eyes, staring animal-like into his, and suddenly he felt consumed in the power of her sexuality. He clutched her hips and on the edge of his release realized he didn't know her name. Crying out incoherent oaths instead, he heard her moaning of ecstasy as she pounded into him seemingly with all her might until finally the bone-melting pleasure subsided. Slowly she turned herself and lay on the stone next to him. Her face was bliss. "That was…"

"-Incredible," Clopin finished.

She found herself laughing, and Clopin, looking at her in amused wonder, began to laugh, too. When her laughter died down, she told him, "Truly, thank you."

"Ah, all in a days work for Clopin Trouillefou," he chuckled.

"Oh really?" she remarked teasingly. "That you have more than a few women, I admit, is not surprising."

He looked at her curiously. "How did you know that position, wife to such a boring man as you are? Did you have a wild youth you have not told me of, hm?"

She smiled in embarrassment, reluctant to reveal information.

"Oh come now," he persuaded in his teasing, playful voice as he rolled back on top of her, caressing her with his elegant fingers. "Tell me, you can tell Clopin anything; it can't be anything worse than what I've done in my life."

"It's nothing, I assure you," she laughed.

"If it's nothing than why don't you tell me?" he continued, a slight whine in his voice, "come now, you tease me with your modesty."

"No, Clopin."

"Why not?"

She laughed at his obstinacy. "The answer's no; now let me up, you stubborn thing!"

His finger caressed her lips sensually and grinned. "Not until I hear what I wish to from these beautiful lips of yours."

She adored his playfulness, but enough was enough. "Fine, if you won't move by your own accord then I shall make you move."

"Oh, you shall? How?" The next moment, Clopin felt her fingers tickling his sides and he let out a yelp of surprise. He tried to stop her hands but stubbornly refused to move; unfortunately her tickling distracted his focus and he could not keep up with her. "Gahaha! _Arret_! _Arret_! Hahaha! I give in!" He rolled off and she grinned at him slyly. "Don't look so clever; it's not my fault I'm ticklish."

"Poor thing," she teased.

"Come, let's dry ourselves. I still want you to tell me the story of your dirty secret."


	4. In Place of Trust

Part 4

When they dried and the Baroness was slipping back into her green silk robe, Clopin was still playfully pestering her. "Tell me, Madame, or my brain shall be wracked with any perverse possibilities it can come up with, and believe me on that subject I have no limits."

She laughed but remained firm. "Aha, but which secret could you mean? I have so many."

Clopin thought this intriguing, but his cautious side began speaking up. Why was this woman so interested in him? What were her reasons for desiring his company? It made little sense for a noblewoman to maintain any real interest in a vagabond. He couldn't help feeling suspicious. "Indeed?" His playfulness was tempered now. "How do I know that any of these secrets will not threaten me in any way?"

The Baroness' smile faded. "…They won't."

"If you were a gypsy I'd take you at your word. But you are a gadje, an outsider. Any trust placed in your kind has too often been abused."

"I do not wish to abuse you."

"But secrets kept from the King of Thunes don't sit well with him from someone he does not trust." He paused. "I am sorry. I should never have done business with you."

He began gathering his clothes, but paused when there came from behind him a rather commanding "Wait."

He turned to her expectantly, wondering what she would offer in place of trust.

"I understand this situation places you in a vulnerable position. If I were playing a political game here I'd have a very strong advantage. But in this particular business I have no interest to that effect."

"You must prove this to me." He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, giving her a challenging gaze.

She thought for a moment. "I will entrust you with one of my secrets."

He stroked his goatee beard. "That will do, but it must have a certain worth to it. How much danger does this secret place you in? Enough that it is equal to the risk I take in coming here and associating with you?"

"In that light you might consider how much of a risk I take in asking you here. By those terms we are in equal danger. We could both be hanged for lechery."

"I need something more. I must be sure this isn't some kind of trap. You know how many times the law thought they could bait me with a pretty woman, hm? You would not be shocked to hear that on many occasions it nearly worked. No, I've learned better. I must insist on further assurance."

She listened, a little resentful that he found her suspicious, but then she didn't trust him either. "Very well." She headed over to a case of books and took out a large, dusty old tome. Clopin observed with an eyebrow cocked. Books? They seemed such tame, solemn things to him. Scholars and monks were the only ones who cared for them, or who could afford them, and certainly Clopin was neither. As he mulled over his doubts at the promise of this secret of hers, she placed the tome on the bed. "No one knows about this, not even Merta, my serving woman." As she opened it up, what was revealed inside gave Clopin a slight shock. Books were expensive works consuming years of a copier's life. Yet the thick tome had a large square chunk cut out of its pages, and inside there were two smaller books. It was a clever trick and Clopin made note of it. Hopefully, for his sake, she'd hid them for a very good reason.

She took one in hand and told him, "This is the only book of its kind in the Christian world. It is called the _Kamasutra_ _Vatsyayana_," the Baroness whispered, as if she was revealing the greatest secret ever told. "I am almost sure that no one else in the western world has seen or read its pages; and if any authorities were to find it, they would certainly declare its owner a heretic." She slowly opened it to a random page and what Clopin saw simultaneously shocked him and excited him: images of couples engaged in coitus in bizarre, wild positions with written descriptions in French, though could not read them. "A thousand Popes…so this is how you learned…"he whispered. "What manner of wondrous devilry is this?"

"Hindu knowledge of love and courtship."

"And how did you come by such a thing?" he was still ogling at the pictures.

"My husband has interests in trade with the Silk Road caravans. One Hindu merchant's wife could speak French and told me of the Kamasutra. I told her that if she brought me a copy of it next she came to Europe, I would pay her twice what she and her husband got for their whole shipment. I waited four years for it."

Clopin smiled at her, "But surely an honest, Christian woman could have no interest in something so ungodly…"

"This honest Christian woman thinks pleasure or satisfaction is not 'ungodly'. And if anyone knows the pains of restraint, it is I. My upbringing has always been contrary with my will and my being. And that is perhaps why I came to you." Her looks were genuine and rebellious. Despite his suspicions he could not help admiring her fire. If she was a trap, they'd picked a good one this time.

"So…you will give me this memento of heathen lovemaking?"

She looked at him with amused outrage. "It is a beautiful work of art and humanity! Humanity in all its flawed, earthly glory!"

He laughed at her dramatic reply. "It will receive no abuse, to be sure: only the attention of my fingers on its pages," Clopin smirked.

She felt herself warming at the sensuality of that image. "Now I need something of yours."

He scoffed. "What?"

"I need my assurances as well as you! After all, I am the wealthy patroness living alone…letting a gypsy in my house."

"If I didn't know any better, Lady, I'd say you were calling us criminals," he accused her impishly.

She reached over and fingered the gold chain around his neck. There was a small, gold medallion hanging from it with an equal-armed cross of obsidian or basalt. "What's this?"

He grasped her hand that was on the medallion possessively. "This…is a family heirloom."

"Are you as afraid to lose it as I am afraid of losing my book?" she looked into his eyes daringly.

Clopin's jaw clenched at her challenge. It was only fair according to gypsy code; but she was gadje and he owed her nothing. She, however, also owed him nothing but was going through the trouble of making a promise the gypsy way. "Very well." He removed it from his neck and placed it on hers. "Protect it," he charged her warily.

She touched his shoulder to reassure him. "I will." Then her face became conspiratorial as she whispered, "I will wear it under my dress when I'm at church with my husband."

Despite his concern, Clopin laughed at the idea. Oh, how sweet that idea was. Clopin couldn't understand men who didn't love women, so the ones who married but never took the trouble to please their wives deserved cuckoldry. It would be a good comeuppance.

"There is one other detail that has escaped me and which you have conveniently omitted," he ventured. "Your name."

She gave him an almost imploring look. "Don't you think it best that you not know? Think: if someone were to guess what was happening, you could never give anyone the name of the mystery woman you were seeing."

He nodded slowly, considering how wise this precaution might be. "If it puts you at ease, it is well with me. But 'Madame', 'Lady', and 'Baroness' are rather wanting for the informality of our…encounters. Don't you agree?"

She smiled a little. "They are a bit formal for casual sex."

Clopin chuckled. "What shall I call you?"

After a moment, she replied, "Ann. Just Ann. A name for anyone."

He nodded in agreement. "So, Ann…" he began, fingering through pages in her book of hedonism, "care to try any of these before I take my leave?"


	5. Of Sex and Politics

Part 5

The Baroness, "Ann", stared at the door through which Clopin had left. She had done it: that which she had only dreamed of doing in years. What did this mean now? She was married and had a lover. Many would have called her adultress, whore, strumpet…witch. But to herself she was none of these. How should it be a crime to love pleasure? Certainly it would be more of a crime to deny her true nature. Catholicism taught differently, but she had not come from a convention upbringing. Her mother was German in every way, but her father was from Britain, the country of revolutionaries. It was her father who had made her the woman she was today, teaching her of politics and business, philosophy and science, and Chaucer; most importantly Chaucer. He had sent her one of the Guttenberg Press's first copies of the _Canterbury Tales_; and the day she read the prologue of the Wife of Bath, it brought to full flame the spark that was her understanding of sexuality.

Over the years, she had come to understand that sex was power. Sex meant ownership, temptation, and, most importantly, female power. Thanks to her husband, she'd been around enough monks and priests to know that a woman's sexuality was considered man's greatest threat. What she wasn't sure of was why. Why were women and their sexuality blamed for so much in the Bible? Why were they convinced to become passive and slavish? Why were Christian men so afraid of a woman taking initiative? "What are they so terrified of?" she asked herself. In this moment, she wished more than ever that she was a gypsy or someone somewhere able to command her own life, live it to its fullest potential. Living this way, as much as she pretended, she could not feel that her life was full. She had this one God-given life to spend on Earth; yet it seemed, according to mortal men, that she should live it as little as possible. Would this not be instead an insult towards God and his gift? What was the purpose of living except to be flawed and learn from it? And how could one learn from life if one did not pursue it fully? The gypsies: they were not Christians, they had their own laws – less restrictive, less gender-based, more open-ended. How it must be to have that freedom, even if it meant persecution. She herself would rather have that punishment than that of constant, suffocating restraint.

Her reverie was interrupted by Merta's knocking. "Come," the Baroness responded.

Merta opened the door slowly, giving her mistress a hard but concerned look. "Well then, Mistress. Was he good to you? Treat you proper?"

Her only response was to smile puckishly. Given her mistress' habit of being a rather cynical creature, Merta found this an exceedingly odd look. "…I suppose I may take that as a 'yes'…"

The Baroness leaned forward, practically giddy in her victory. "Take the meaning of 'yes' and multiply it one thousand fold. Merta, I am having a torrid affair with the most charming gypsy this side of Constantinople! Does this not amuse you?"

Merta merely rolled her eyes and went back to her duties. "I'll be keeping an eye on the coffers then…"

* * *

Clopin entered his domain in the Paris catacombs, the Court of Miracles, to much amazement and cheer. After having heard that he was imprisoned, the Paris tribe of gypsies had been either lamenting his capture or devising ways to get him out. So when he suddenly appeared on their doorstep, there was a clamor from those who saw him.

"I don't believe it! Would you look there! It's Clopin Trouillefou!"

"Clopin? He has escaped?"

A large, jovial gypsy man took a swig of liquor and laughed. "By the Pope's guts, the King of Truands returns unscathed!"

"Clopin! My god…Clopin!" a woman cried and ran to embrace him.

"Desinèe! Surprised to see me?" he joked.

"We weren't sure how to get you out and yet here you stand! How did you escape?"

They all wanted to know.

"Ah, dear sister, dear comrades, if I tell you it will take away all the mystery and wonder of my cunning," he grinned and his audience chuckled.

She scoffed in outrage and shoved him. "My brother! Always full of jokes! You're an impossible, arrogant miscreant, but I am happy you are alive and well."

He was pestered all day as to the details of his escape, but he would speak only in riddles and grins. Even so, his tribe was left all the more convinced they could not have chosen a more inventive rascal for their leader.

To anyone outside of Romani society, the Court would seem a place of simultaneous horror, exoticism, and beauty; horror because any outsider without express (and very rare) permission would be immediately "tried" and hung by Clopin himself. The sense of justice down here was a mirror of that in the outside world: up there, outsiders received little mercy from Parisian society and so it was down here except the other way around. But amongst the foundations of Roman-age, stone buildings were large curtains of colorful cloth, exotic yet worn tents, pillows, and blankets covered the area with an exception of two spaces: a center area which housed a common fire pit, and secondly the scaffolding holding a large beam on which several hangman's nooses were tied. To outsiders they signified impending doom, but to the Romani they symbolized their own brand of security and power.

As was usual, there were more than a few who had business with Clopin, whether it was on how to deal with the new ranks of guards, how collective food should be divided or when they should have their next bonfire. Most of this was simple decision-making, but one issue that had been grating on all of them, especially Clopin, was the quantity of funds being granted to the Parisian state intended for law enforcement and religious promotion, which included as one of its goals the conversion and assimilation of gypsies. There were several German and Belgian nobles who, seeing Paris as a kind of wild place full of disorder, were giving sums of money for its taming. It had become a kind of side project of Emperor Frederick III and it was a rather large thorn in the gypsies' sides.

A young man with a stormy appearance entered Clopin's tent.

"Ah, Emilian. Sit." He waited until the man had settled himself and then asked, "What news?"

"I've just heard a few days ago that the Germans are coming into town again. The ministers were muttering something about this being one of their last visits. I assume from their tone that this may also mean an ending to the monies they have been enjoying and filling their pockets with."

Clopin's chest filled with anticipation. "So, the nobles come to fix us may be leaving…this is better news than I hoped for…"

"But I would not bet my life on it, Chief."

"We'll have to lay low as long as they're here; I've had enough of these raids they've been having."

Emilian agreed. The Parisan Judges and Ministers, in an effort to show that the money was being effectively implemented, were making shows of the number of gypsies caught and headed for conversion to Catholicism every time the Barons came to town. _Which is probably why they apprehended me without reason four days ago_, Clopin thought grimly. "Let's hope this information is solid. But in the event it is not…" He thought about it for a few moments. "I shall have to think on that longer. Did you catch any of the German's names, by chance?"

"I have heard the name of Frederick III, and German Barons von Bergen, von Esslingen, and von Strasbourg. Of the Belgians I have heard little."

"Von Bergen," he spat, "the ringleader of them all. Did you learn anything of the others?"

"No, Chief; perhaps next time I listen."

"Do that. It would be nice to have targets more accessible than the Holy Roman Emperor."

Emilian stared. "Do you mean to lead an attack?"

"If they do not leave Paris soon, we will not sit by."

Next in his tent was a man known as the Duke of Egypt, a long-time friend of Clopin. He entered without announcement, a luxury few other than him could afford; because of this Clopin was caught off guard while finding a place for The Book. Curious what he should be doing with such a thing, the Duke's eyes narrowed questioningly. "What, has the world turned upside-down?"

Clopin turned quickly and then relaxed. "Don't startle me like that, my friend! Had you been anyone else…" he trailed off. It went without saying that anyone else would have asked him several dozen questions and news better kept secret would've gotten out to the whole tribe, and he was not prepared for that.

"What use could you possibly have with a book?" the duke inquired, sitting down.

"A long story."

"Since when have you disliked telling stories?"

"I dislike telling any story which my carry bad implications in the minds of my people."

"My Chief, as your right hand and good friend, I must be able to vouchsafe your word and your honor amongst our brothers and sisters. I think you had better tell me."

Clopin considered this a moment. If he was going to tell anyone, it would be the Duke. He brought the book back out and set it on his lap. "You must keep this quiet. I have made a kind of deal with a gadje."

The Duke became concerned. "Indeed? I must assume you are very sure of this deal. If you were anyone else-"

"I know, you'd tell them to break it off. I'd say the very same in most cases. But this deal…it's…unusual." He couldn't hide a smirk.

The Duke's curiosity was piqued.

"Anyhow, we made a promise according to _our_ ways. She gave me this as collateral," he explained, referencing the book.

"'She', Clopin?" The Duke's tone was now somewhat admonishing. "A gadje is one thing, but I know how you are with women. And worse, this is obviously a _wealthy_ woman."

"I am aware of it myself, but you can trust that I will err on the side of caution. For the time being, it seems she has no ulterior motives. _But_," he held up a hand to halt the Duke's protest, "if I get the slightest hint she's up to something foul, I will remove myself from the deal."

"Of what house is she?"

"We have agreed I should not know her name, but she is a Baroness."

"A German Baroness? You have a deal with one of the German Baron's wives?!" The Duke seemed incredulous. "What if she is a part of the Baronies so intent on destroying us, hm? Did you think of that?"

"Of course I did, Duke, I am not a simpleton! There are many Barons who have houses near Paris without them being a part of that vile circle. Like I said, for the time being she seems to have no other motive than our business."

For now, the Duke seemed satisfied with Clopin's judgment and after a few moments he asked conversationally, "So she gave you a book, eh?"

"Not just any book." Clopin stood and drew the curtain door down, brought the book over to his companion and opened its pages. The Duke's jaw dropped at what he saw. "Guts of the Pope!" he whispered. Then, looking up at Clopin, he asked wryly, "I suppose this is some indication of your little arrangement."

Clopin just smiled mischievously as the Duke rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Trust you to find the only libertine noblewoman in all of Paris."


	6. Code

_A/N: I would just love some reviews. I'd really like to hear what people think of the characterizations etc._

No more than three days had passed since the tryst between Clopin Trouillefou and the German Baroness when there began in La Place de Notre Dame the peasant's harvest festival. As usual, the local officials made their appearance as well as the visiting Germans and Belgians who had an interest in the habits of Paris. The Baroness stood watching with her husband, taking notice of any and every gypsy she saw, wondering if _he_ would be here. As usual, she was deathly bored. Her husband had little conversation in him, as always, and the other noblewomen merely twittered about gossip, scandal, and what they thought of this morning's mass. She played along as always; it was second nature and so much so that it was almost genuine. Taking advantage of the other noblewomen's society to wander away from her husband, she small-talked with them until they came to a small group of performing gypsies; a young woman dancing and several men playing instruments. The woman was about her age, she observed, and she danced with the liberty and untamed quality of a young maid. One of the noblewomen addressed her, "My dear, Paris is such a wild place, don't you think? If we had gypsies in Frankfurt, we always pushed them out. It's hard to believe the French tolerate them so. Honestly, I don't know how you can feel safe living here!"

She smiled. "I understand you very well, Margaret; fortunately we are placed in the outskirts, where folk are much more tame and pious."

"But it isn't necessary; surely your husband would let you stay at your estate in Germany, would he not?"

"Indeed; if I requested it, I am sure he would grant it me. But I believe it important that we stay near to where we are needed. We must keep track of things, you know, and Johann needs me for the keeping of his books and ensuring that German assistance is being used efficiently. Like you said, Parisians are not the most Christian people."

"Ah yes, true; except some of the ministers here are rather promising. Judge Frollo, I've heard, has quite a reputation." Someone called from behind them. "Do excuse me, dear, my husband calls."

She nodded and turned her attention back to the performance. In the crowd, a hooded figure she hadn't noticed before suddenly nudged her. At first she ignored it, but she was nudged more insistently a second time and when she looked at the shadowed face, she saw that it was Clopin. It startled her, but her reaction was hidden. She looked to see what her noble companions were up to; they were well out of earshot and no one else was paying them any mind. Looking out ahead of her, as if watching the performance, murmured to him, "And here I was thinking you'd disappear on me."

"We never had the chance to use your bed; certainly I can't disappear without testing its endurance first."

She nearly flushed. "Do not say such things!" she whispered, trying not to laugh. "Not in public."

"I thought you enjoyed risk, ma cher," he teased. Then, looking over his shoulder, he added, "Your husband is in town."

"For the next ten accursed days." She paused. "How is my book?"

His eyes twinkled at her. "Very informative – and quite safe."

She looked down to hide her smile.

"And…how is my medallion?"

"Safe…and exactly where I said it would be." She shot him a brief but suggestive look.

He let his mischievous gaze rest on her. "It would be a fine thing to have you prove it."

"But alas, we must wait." Her tone said very clearly that if he thought she would do anything remotely intimate in public, he had another thing coming. He merely smirked mischievously out of the corner of his hood. Employing slight of hand, he slipped something into her fingers – by the feel of it, a scrap of paper. "When the day comes that your husband is to leave, come here to La Place de Notre Dame and tip my sister here, who is dancing for us now. With the coin, drop in this paper. It has one of our symbols on it. It will mean it is safe for me to venture your way."

"And you will come?"

"I cannot always obey your call, but I will come when I am able."

"I see." He could hear the dissatisfaction in her voice, though she hid it well.

"Madame-"

"You have your own affairs to tend to, I know. Think nothing of it."

"In that case, I think you'd better rejoin your lady friends. And," his voice became less business-like and more familiar, "keep my medallion warm for me."

She hid a smile as she made her way over to the other noblewomen. Suddenly, there were yells and screaming behind her. Guards from the Palace of Justice were swarming through the crowd, capturing and pursuing the performers. She looked around frantically for Clopin, but he had disappeared. As some of the instrument players were taken into custody, she saw the gypsy woman dash. Several guards in pursuit looked for which direction she'd gone, but before they could think about it much, the Baroness shouted to them and pointed in a different direction, which they followed without hesitation.

After her husband had left, 'Ann' left with Merta in the guise of accompanying her to the market and did just as Clopin had instructed. The very next day, as she was making notations in her husband's accounts, Merta came into the room, looking somewhat irritated, saying, "Madame,_ he_ is here." Sure enough, from behind her he strode, saying in that distinct Franco-Romani accent, "I'm telling you, Merta, you should have more cheer! A doleful mood does you no credit; if you would just smile more, you'd have men falling at your feet." He shot the servant a mischievous smile. Merta rolled her eyes disdainfully and went back to what work needed doing.

Ann raised her eyebrows in amusement at the scene, her arms resting on the back of her chair. "I'm afraid Merta doesn't have much of a sense of humor. Nor does she tolerate cheery people well."

"Even a porcupine is soft somewhere. Besides, she loves me. Can't you tell?"

Ann gave a laugh. "You're incorrigible." She went back to her account books. "I will be finished in just a moment or two."

"You keep your husband's accounts for him?" his tone was disbelieving.

She let out a single laugh and in a strained tone answered, "That's why he married me."

"What?!"

"He admired my skills in reading, writing, arithmetic and organization. Why else do you think he's so free to come and go as he pleases? _I_ am the true master of this estate for all the time he puts into it."

After a few minutes, she finished and was putting away the papers, the ink, the quill, the large volumes. Clopin, becoming impatient, approached her slowly from behind, standing close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear. He smelled of cloves. She paused, feeling chills. Coming around to her side, he took the last book out of her hands, and placed the book rather forcefully on the shelf, looking intently at her. Clearly, he was done waiting.

"I could have done that myself," she smirked, meeting his gaze challengingly.

With a smug expression, he pulled her still closer to him and nuzzled her ear, his goatee beard brushing her shoulder. "I'm sure you could, Madame, but having someone do it for you is infinitely better."

The entendre was not lost on her and she smiled and shook her head.

He traced her throat with his fingers, seeing no gold chain. "Where's my medallion?"

"Somewhere down my bodice," she laughed. "My husband noticed the chain and I had to make sure he wouldn't think of asking about it."

"Really? How clever of you to hide it there: he'll _never_ find it."

She smirked at the truth of his statement.

He nuzzled her neck. "On the other hand, I could help you look for it…"

She feigned an admonishing whisper. "Clopin…"

"Yes, Ann?" His tone was teasing and she could tell he was smirking against her skin.

Unable to resist any longer, she turned to look him in the face. His eyes had _that look_ in them, like he knew how much she wanted him and loved every moment's proof of it. It had been two weeks since their last meeting and it had felt like forever. She was just as desirous, if not more so, than the first time. This time, though, she would not need to be so cautious. This time, she wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. Surprising him with a ferocious kiss, she forcefully pressed him against a wall. A tiny voice in her head worried that he would not like this, but she received the opposite impression when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her more tightly against him. He chuckled in astonishment, "Truly, you are no German woman."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh really?"

"German women don't give gypsies a run for their money."

"Shows how much you know."

His fingers grazed her jaw, meandering down her throat. "Ah, I know plenty, my little vixen. There must be heathen blood in your veins."

"Even non-heathens must procreate and enjoy it."

"True, but not all of them can do it well, as you have yearly proof," he chuckled.

She scoffed in outrage, half laughing herself. "My husband comes to me more than once a year!"

"Pity."

Smiling in her defeat, she agreed. "Indeed…"

Not unsympathetic, he lifted her chin with his hand and looked her in the eyes. "No matter," he whispered and kissed her sensually. After a time, the only sounds being of breath and hands over cloth, she pulled away and gently nibbled his ear, feeling a thrill rush through her when she heard him exhale sharply.

Feeling her mouth trailing from his ear down his neck, Clopin couldn't believe he'd considered bedding her only once. He had many women for his 'needs,' it was true, but most of them were far more passive in bed, wanting him to act on them. He didn't mind it, but at times he found these women a little selfish in this regard. Ann, on the other hand, was not only aggressive but also made every touch meticulous and savory, as if she were painting a work of art on him, attentive to the craft of every brushstroke. Inhaling at the sensation of her hands slipping under his shirt, he realized how much more accessible his body was in comparison to hers, covered in complex layers as she was. "We need to get you out of these," he breathed, "before you tease me to death."

Her eyes got that predatory gleam in them as she led him elsewhere.

They came to a smaller room with a large roaring fireplace and several rugs of animal skin in front of it. There were many heads of deer and other various animals placed in the wall as well as various kinds of hunting weaponry. "Let me guess…," Clopin joked. "Your husband is fond of hunting."

"For some reason every German lord must have at least one or five rooms devoted to it. God only knows why," she explained, then began removing her clothes, layer by layer, in the light and heat of the fire. Clopin watched with great interest, having never really seen all the complex undergarments of female nobility. Every layer left just a bit more skin revealed, and it was tantalizing. "Even your dress tortures me, Madame - if you don't hurry, I'll come over there and rip your garments to shreds!"

"For God's sake, Clopin: patience! Surely you know the anticipation is what makes the actual event all the better…" She strode over to him, half-dressed but still mostly covered, and pushed him down into the plush chair behind him. "Now stay there until I'm finished."

He laughed in astonishment at her boldness. "But Madame-"

She held up a finger. "Ah! Not another word. And when I'm done…" she shot him a cunning look as she fished out the medallion and tossed it to him, "it'll be your turn."


	7. A Gadje is a Gadje

Hours later, they lay together on the lush furs in front of the fire, a light blanket thrown over them. Clopin's arms were around her waist and his head rested in the cleft between her neck and shoulder, sharing drowsy conversation with his hostess. She turned towards him. "It is a long and cold walk back into the city. Stay the night with me."

He was quiet for a few moments, looking as if he were about to say that he should not. Something was pressing at his mind, and his barely detectable concern intrigued her.

"I have never seen you look worried. What is weighing on you?" she asked softly.

"It is nothing, cherie. Put it from your mind."

"Do you wish to return home?"

"I must. However much I may wish to stay - and I do - I should not."

She studied him. "You're anxious. I can see it. Please tell me; who could I possibly tell your secret to?"

He suddenly became stern and his voice stronger. "The Ministers, the Judges, even a priest; they all have something to gain from any slip you could make."

She sat up, firm and stern herself. "And what do you think I owe any of _them_? You think any knowledge of your misdeeds will shock me so much that I will run to the nearest official? You think I didn't understand who you were in that respect when I first asked you here? If I were so naïve and respectable as to flush with horror at your secrets, then you would not be here, I would believe whatever the priests told me, and I would not be a malcontent."

He considered her words. "I did not mean to judge you. It is not you; it is the society you keep."

"You fear my tongue would slip. Yet I have managed to keep all of my own secrets from them to the point which they don't even know who I am. I do not wish to force your confidence, make no mistake. But do not think for a moment that I side with the bureaucrats."

He appeared to be contemplating how much he should trust her and, for a moment, he seemed about to tell her something, but stopped himself. "I'm sorry for misjudging you. But no matter who you are or what your habits, a gypsy trusts none but his own."

Still dissatisfied, she laid back down facing the fire, irritation in her face. Sensing the change in atmosphere, Clopin murmured, "Perhaps I should leave now."

Without moving, Ann replied, "You're worried about the raids, aren't you?"

He was silent.

"I know it's the judges' and ministers' doing. They do it every time the Barons come into town. Your people are dragged off by the dozen for no real purpose except deception." She paused. "You may not need to worry much longer."

His brow knitted, he asked why.

She gazed into the fire, chewing her lip thoughtfully before replying, "There is trouble brewing in Germany. Chaos is coming to our own lands, and it is a greater threat to the Emperor than the gypsies and outlaws of Paris."

Clopin was listening intently.

"A monk named Martin Luther is stirring up a revolution in Northern Germany, protesting the selling of indulgences. His movement is gaining momentum, and it may split the Christian world in two. Any good German Catholic will immediately rush to the aid of the Holy Roman Emperor and the Pope in their fight against this monk and his followers."

He couldn't help feeling excitement at this. "…And the Germans will have to abandon Paris…doubtless the Belgians will follow without German support."

"But not all of them. Some of my equals have money enough to still support the movement here. And the Belgians won't be as moved to fight Luther as the Germans."

"But why wouldn't they? They needed their holy wars to keep themselves busy and make themselves out to be saints. As for the Germans, a heretical movement in their own country surely would not be borne!"

"Yes, you're right; but the Barons who can afford it and the Belgians who choose not to become invested in the fight against Luther are not putting their money into Paris or anywhere else because of religious conviction. They've created a _position_ for themselves here."

He understood. "They just like the power." He inhaled and ran his hands over his face as he rolled onto his back. "All they want is power…and so they'll stay as long as they like." Clopin's head was buzzing, considering the information…and Ann. "You mean to redeem yourself in my eyes by this. But a gadje is a gadje."

Hearing that word over and over was becoming obscenely irritating. "Preach whatever you want to yourself, but I think you know otherwise. If you ever need information, I will offer what help I can give."

"_Why_ should you wish to help us?" he challenged.

"All learned people are people of ideals. It's true, I do wish to win you over, but I make my offer out of principle. Your people are free. I am not, nor can I ever be. But I can save those whose ways of life I support…even admire."

His expression read as 'you're making this hard for me.'

"I meant what I said."

He took her hand. "So you mean to say your generosity is not out of love for me?" he asked with a wolfish smile, changing the subject.

She knew what he was doing, but relented to a smile. "Ha! Love, indeed…I don't believe in such a thing."

"Don't believe in-? But surely, Madame, one as pretty as you must surely have fallen in love before?" He was half-joking with her. "What happened, has some lover of yours left you a cynic?"

"I have always been a cynic in matters of coupling, as well you know," she chuckled, her voice suddenly turning to light indignance. "And why is it that if one is pretty, it is expected that surely _we_ should fall in love over and above everyone else?"

"Because those less well-endowed depend on lovely people to secure the attractiveness of the human race," he joked smugly. "My mother was a great beauty: look how I turned out."

"Hmm. Perhaps you have something there," she flirted. "But all the same, love is an idea for children."

He tsked at her. "Such a shame, my dear Ann, such a shame."

_A/N: I know the reference to Martin Luther is anachronistic, but it was too perfect for the story and it's not off by much; trying to make everything else as true to the time as possible._


	8. Farce

Part 8

A/N: Thanks very much to those who reviewed! I'm very happy you like it. As to all the history present here, when I was doing my fact-checking it just amazed me to realize how many things were happening. _Notre Dame de Paris_ is set literally on the brink of an explosion of events and it just seemed too good not to include.

This chapter I wrote because I've always wanted to try my hand at farce and I know that Clopin is not Clopin without humor. (Plus it stands to reason that this situation had to happen eventually.) And so, back to the action…

* * *

_Some days after the last encounter…_

Breathing heavily, the two spent lovers rolled onto their backs. It was early morning and the sun was rising. "Bless you, Ann, for that lecherous book…"

"I know it." The Baroness smiled at her gypsy. "Becoming a lover of books are you?"

"If all books were like that one, I would love books as much as I love-"

"Women?"

He thought for a moment. "About half as much as I love women; but that's still saying a lot."

There was suddenly a pounding on the door. ""Meine Dame, ein neuer Tag ist angebrochen...und Ihr Gatte ist aus München heimgekehrt."

The Baroness sat up and eyes grew wide; for an instant there was panic on her face. "Verdammt!" *Dammit!*

He could see the gears in her head turning wildly and his brow knitted. "What? Ann, what is it?"

She leapt from the bed and began dressing herself. "Wenn wir uns jetzt nicht richtig beeilen, landen wir in der Hölle!"

To Clopin it was obvious that something was very wrong. For a bemused moment he blinked at her behavior. "Ann, I can't understand German!" he exclaimed, trying to bring her back to her senses, "Tell me, what is happening."

She calmed herself, but her eyes still screamed 'jeopardy.' "My husband is back from Munich."

"What?"

She went back to putting herself together and tossing him his clothes, saying hurriedly, "I know, he was supposed to be gone another three days! We have no time, please just hurry!"

Another minute later, there was another knock on her door. "Meine Gemahlin, ich habe etwas mit Dir zu besprechen." (My wife, I have something to talk to you about.) It was The Husband.

For an instant the two adulterer's eyes met, both pairs saying 'what now?'

Calmly, Ann whispered, "I will meet him outside the door and talk with him there. As soon as you're able, either find a hiding place or find a way out."

He nodded, the look on his face saying he couldn't believe he was participating in such a cliché.

The Baroness closed the door close behind her and gave her husband a winning smile. "My Lord, it is God's blessing that you've come home to me so soon." She took his hands in hers.

The Baron held her hands, quizzically looking at her attire. "My Lady…are you sure this is appropriate wear for you to greet your respectable husband in?"

She looked down at her robe, as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh! I'm sorry, husband; it's merely that I was so…so elated that you were home. I'm afraid I quite forgot myself!"

He nodded, still looking uncomfortable. "Yes, yes that seems to be. I am delighted you are so overjoyed to see me, dear wife, but please, let's get you into something more…acceptable." He began leading her towards her chamber door. Quickly she turned back to him. "Oh, no, no, no you can't go in there."

He was a little taken back by her insistence. "And why not?"

"Because…it's such a mess; it would be absolutely embarrassing."

"Well then we should have Merta go in straight away to clean up. Merta!"

The serving woman came over. "Yes, my Lord?"

The Baroness spoke up first. "Please go and straighten up my room, Merta."

The Baron added, "Yes, my wife says it's a mess in there."

Merta was befuddled. "With respect, Gentles, I cleaned it yesterday."

Confused, the Baron stammered, "Then…then…"

"Dear Merta!" the Baroness interrupted, a pointed look in her eye, "Don't you remember? You didn't clean the bath chamber."

Merta nodded slowly, comprehending. "Ohhh. Yes, Madame, I remember now. Don't mind silly old Merta, she's always forgetting these days." She was trying to sound casual, but instead the effect sounded rather odd. The Baron was still looking at the maid quizzically, but then shook it off. "Well, now. Let's get you into something more suitable. And there is that discussion I must have with you."

"Oh no, please let's let Merta alone to do her work."

"My dear, you said yourself it's only the bath chamber needs to be seen to. Besides, I can handle a little mess."

_Donnerwetter! Can nothing prevent this?_ she thought as they went to the door, unable to stop him. She expected any moment now to hear his shout of alarm or some other such doomsday sound, but it did not come. The Baron simply strolled in and remarked how it really wasn't a mess at all. He looked at her affectionately. "My dear wife," he chuckled, "you are far too orderly. You must relax at times."

She breathed and merely smiled politely, in her head scrambling for where Clopin could be, if he was still here. _God let him have gotten out somehow!_

"I'm sure that even the bathing chamber was not so entirely put out of sorts either," he ventured over to the chamber where Merta was just walking out. "Come see, wife, Merta had hardly anything to do in here." The Baroness went over, eager to move away from wherever Clopin might be.

"You know I adore your attention to detail and your great efficiency, but you mustn't let Merta do so much where she isn't needed."

She smiled indulgently. "Of course, husband. I will remember-"

Suddenly there was a shriek. The Baron bolted into the boudoir where he saw Merta in front of the wardrobe, doubled over with her hand on her chest, clearly catching her breath from a great fright. When she looked up and saw them she wheezed, "Oh mistress, I'm sorry! I forgot..."

The Baron went over to help her and incidentally saw into the wardrobe and gave a shout. "What the devil- What is the meaning of this?"

Knowing the jig was up, Clopin exited from his hiding place in the wardrobe, fully dressed thank god. The Baroness' heart was pounding, yet Clopin seemed as cool as ever. "Monsieur, please, calm yourself! The job has been finished!"

The Baron looked like he didn't understand a word Clopin said. "Job?"

Her thoughts coming quickly, the Baroness jumped in, "Yes! Didn't I mention it? The pole in my wardrobe was beginning to break with the weight of all my apparel. Naturally I couldn't have Merta trying to fix such a thing, and since you had both the serving-gentlemen traveling with you, I had to look elsewhere."

"But how did he get in here? Was he here when you were in such a state of undress?" he asked incredulously.

Clopin gallantly stepped forward. "Ah, no, Monsieur, your servingwoman let me in while you and your Lady were discussing that very subject in the hallway. Isn't that right, Merta?"

Merta was still dizzy after her fright and so distraught in her confusion at the current scenario that she was sitting on the floor, a pitiable expression of mental bafflement on her face. She merely groaned, "Oh. Yes. Don't mind silly old Merta…she's always forgetting these days…"

"Ah," the Baron said, still disoriented and scrutinizing Clopin. "But this is no carpenter, Madame, this man is a gypsy! Surely he was attempting to fool you. I shall call the guard at once."

His wife flew to the door to prevent him and insisted, as if he had made a silly mistake, "Oh no, my Lord; this man is no gypsy!"

"How so? Dark-skinned and wearing a gold earring? He's most certainly a gypsy!"

Clopin's thoughts were flying for an excuse for this. "Ah, I can see how you might think that Monsignor, but ah…"

"He's from Turkey!" she filled in, perhaps a little too ardently. As her husband turned to her for explanation, she saw Clopin's look of relief from behind him. "He's…come to France because…he wishes to convert to Christianity and become a gentile." She said this confidently, looking her husband dead in the eye. She knew this was his favorite sort of story. From behind him, Clopin gave her a look of complete disgust, which disappeared as soon as the Baron turned back to him. From behind her husband, the Baroness shot back an apologetic look and mouthed, "Sorry!"

The Baron's tone had changed dramatically. "Oh really? Well, my good man, you're in an interesting city for that. Paris is full of heathens and corruption, you know. Better you had gone to the German country. Nothing there but simple, Christian folk with simple desires. You won't find nearly so much sin and depravity in German men."

With an ironic sincerity, Clopin replied, "So I've heard from your Lady here, Monsieur."

The Baroness had to put her hand to her mouth so as not to laugh and hid it quickly as her husband turned back to her. "Yes, my wife is the best Germany has to offer: pious, pure, efficient, and ambitionless." It was Clopin's turn to hide a laugh. "It is good you found her to guide you."

Becoming very serious again, Clopin agreed gracefully. Looking at the wardrobe interior, the Baron continued, "Well, good man, it seems you've done a decent job with this wardrobe. I'd say that deserves a few Florins." He gave Clopin several gold coins. "What did you say your name was?"

He made only a millisecond's hesitation. "Kralis, sir."

"Well…Kralis…Anytime my wife has work to be done in my absence, you are welcome to our patronage."

"It's my pleasure to do service to your fine Mistress, Monsieur," he bowed artfully, the mischief in his eye not lost on the Baroness, who rolled her eyes, but not without amusement.

"And now I think we must leave her alone to _finally_ be properly dressed."

He and a bewildered Merta exited and Clopin lingered behind. "Whatever gods may be must be thanked for that!" he whispered.

"Agreed!" she breathed, half-laughing. "Isn't 'Kralis' your title of king in Romani?"

"My dear, that's why I chose it. It will be greatly satisfying that your husband should call me 'king' in his own house," he chuckled.

With a playful shove and a laugh, she told him to get out.


	9. A Raise in the Stakes

part 9

It was some weeks later that it seemed the gypsies' hopes were coming to fruition. With the threat of Martin Luther, a significant number of the German barons did leave to support Catholic Germany. A handful of particularly devout Belgians went as well and, to most of the Paris tribe, it seemed the foreign influence was fast disappearing; to all, that was, except for Clopin and his confidante, the Duke of Egypt. The gypsy king chose not to participate in the preemptive celebration raging outside of his tent and instead brooded over what they should do when the most powerful of the barons remained. He had been able to influence local officials and even the priests of Notre Dame in his own unique way, but someone like the Baron von Bergen, second only to Emperor Frederick III in the Pope's favor as far as Germans went, was, he admitted, a bit of a stretch. For the moment, the most effective way to fight back eluded him. He felt a slight burn in his chest as he listened to the people outside reveling in their perceived victory. They would soon sober up when they realized there was nothing to celebrate just yet.

Sure enough, a few days later as many as thirty gypsies, including Emilian who was Clopin's best spy, were imprisoned by the Palace of Justice for their "conversion." The number was alarming and for the first time the gypsies became truly concerned. The conversion process was not one they worried about, for eventually their comrades returned unscathed after a month at the most, so full were the jails. The Captain of the Guard insisted on allowing the "converted" gypsies their freedom since there were people who needed imprisonment more than them. But, again, the sheer number struck a quiet chord of uncertainty in the gypsy tribe.

Some time after this occurrence, a bonfire was being held in the Court of Miracles and a wild pig was turning on a spit. It was one of their feast days and everyone was merry, although there was a slight air of concern in that underground, for some of those who should have been let out of the prison by now had not returned. Despite this, the flickering firelight danced on the bright curtains and walls, musicians played, tumblers tumbled. All was well until several figures appeared at the entrance of the Court. Clopin, ever aware, was one of the first to notice. Two wretched looking creatures being helped to walk by two of the watchmen posted in the sewer. Clopin bounded over to the stairs and looked up. "Who do you bring here, dear fellows? I should hope for their sakes they are kith and kin."  
One of the haggard ones pulled his ragged black hair from his face with a most abused hand, and Clopin was shocked. "Emilian…" Clopin rushed up the stairs, concern, fury, and shock warring in his chest. He examined the other, a woman with more than a few burns and, upon closer inspection, many thousand little bloody marks all over her. The celebration had come to a dead halt and all eyes were on Clopin and the two he was examining. He gently pushed the hair out of the woman's face and tilted her chin. "Isabella Morova…is that you?"  
Her voice was gravel. "I'm sorry to say."  
They didn't need to tell him what had happened. Emilian's hands were bloody and had no fingernails. Isabella's bloody marks were from…he didn't want to think about it. Not now. He was so near exploding with the anguish, fear, and rage he was feeling now. Right now, all he could do was to get them some care for their injuries.

Clopin fumed and paced in his tent, the Duke of Egypt observing him quietly. "They've begun torturing them. And there are more than thirty of us in there now, several of them no more than children. We cannot stand by any longer."  
"I agree, of course, Chief, but what are you suggesting? That we lay siege to la Palais de Justice? It's a fortress!"  
Clopin had finally halted and was silently contemplating stratagems. Seeing no obvious or certain way forward, he announced he was going to talk to the two escapees.

Clopin strode purposefully over to the hanging scaffold. He knew what must be done. After talking with Emilian and Isabella, he now knew of a way in. He and a small group would sneak in and out through the door used to take out the dead bodies, pick the locks or break the bars (for there was a blacksmith amongst their numbers), and get their people out with the deadman's carts. They could do it. They had to do it. Now, as he sprang up onto the scaffold and called for their attention, he would just have to pitch his dangerous plan to his people and hope for some volunteers.

Clopin and his group of five, swathed in tattered brown robes just like the ones the menial workers at the jail wore, pushed out the heavy-laden deadman's carts, about fifteen bodies in each, all playing dead. They went one at a time, as casually as possible, down the Paris street in the direction of the graveyard until they were out of sight of any of the guards. More gypsies emerged from the dark alleyways and they began to push the carts in earnest, moving them as fast as they could to the first entrance of the Court that they could find. It was a good thing they were already moving fast, because a lookout watching the road behind them shouted that guards were moving their way. Clearly, the empty jails had been noticed. They could hear horse hooves clattering around the streets as the guards searched. Clopin ordered that the two carts split up. That way the guards would have to split, too. Racing in and out of alleys, the gypsies did their best to evade the guards, stopping to hide in dark places and niches which their hunters would pass them by. This cat and mouse game lasted for the better part of an hour, until Clopin and his group came close to an entrance of the Court. There were guards there, having a rest from their runaround. Clopin didn't dare to hope they would move. There were some already having a nap. Also, it was a cold night and the injured could not be made to stay out in a stakeout. Making a risky decision, knowing guards would be everywhere for several hours more, Clopin turned them around and herded them outside the city.

It was a half hour's walk to the estate of his noble lady-friend from the city boundaries and Clopin's heart thumped, knowing it was all too possible that he was walking into an unwelcome situation. Telling the others to stay hidden in the brush, he crept up to the estate and peeked into the window. There was Merta, sweeping the floor. He knocked gently on the glass. She paused for a minute and then went back to her sweeping. Knocking again, a little louder this time, he got her attention. She narrowed her eyes at him, not in disdain, but rather more in curiosity. She opened the door. "My mistress didn't invite you, did she? She can't have. My master only left this morning."  
"Merta, this is very urgent so you must listen well. Tell your Lady that I am in great need of help and I will owe her a favor if she does me right in this."  
So serious were Clopin's looks and voice, that it took Merta aback. Her eyebrows raised, she said in the least curmudgeon-like tone she'd ever used, "Please wait; I will tell her…You may come in, if you wish."  
"No, thank you, I will wait here."  
Again, Merta seemed mildly surprised. She shrugged it off. "As it please you."  
Moments later, Ann was at the door. "Indeed, I am surprised to see you! Not that it is wholly unwelcome, but…what manner of help do you require?"  
"I am sorry to inconvenience you and I know this is overstepping the bounds of our agreement, but I need shelter for my people here with me. We have many injured and we cannot wait for the guards to move indoors for the night."  
"Injured? What has transgressed that you have so many injured?"  
"I will be happy to discuss it further, but I must first get them out of the cold."  
She glanced at him sideways. "We are not supposed to trust each other."  
There was a faint smirk that tugged ironically at his mouth. "I know. And yet, here we are. I had nowhere else to bring them."  
She stared him in the eye for a few moments, poker-faced, and then sighed, "I trust the guards are not likely to come this way?" Her toned suggested she would relent though she did not care to take this risk.  
"Not very likely, no."  
She heard the touch of uncertainty and frowned slightly. "You can take them into the barn. The workmen have all gone for the season and there should be no one to bother you. I will send Merta with some supplies to help you heal your injured."  
He clasped her hand gratefully. "We are very grateful to you."  
"I am sure. Now, I would be very grateful to _you_ if, when your people are inside, you would be so kind as to tell me why you were so desperate as to take such a risk in coming here."

"I shall."

"And Clopin," she started, halting him in his tracks as he turned away. "Do not make the mistake of thinking my estate a suitable and ready shelter from the law. I do this for you this one time alone."

He nodded his understanding and went to tend to his people.


	10. Vile Strategems

LoV 10

Even a week after the escape, most gypsies were staying out of sight, now that they knew what was happening in the jails. So it was very difficult to find one to pass on a message, as Ann was quickly discovering. Studying the various wares on display at the many stalls, she kept a sharp eye open for gypsies, looking down ally ways. She was about to give up in frustration when she saw a beggar on a corner down the street. Clutching the paper and a coin between her fingers, she approached him. He was directly in front of a narrow ally; an escape route should any authorities come by. He sat on a square wood plank with wooden wheels attached as he apparently could not walk. He held out his bowl to her, one or two stray coins therein. "May God bless your Ladyship," he croaked. She held the paper and coin out to him. He was at first mystified and surprised, but he didn't have time to think about it before she commanded in a low voice, "You know what to do with it. I will be back here in two hours time. Bring me something to prove you've seen him and given him my message and there will be another five Florins."

"What message, m'lady?"

"Tell him I know more. That is all."

He began to drag himself away on his board.

"Go quickly or it will be two Florins instead of five," she added threateningly.

"But Madame, I…" he excused, indicating his board. But she gave him a hard look and he nodded reluctantly, picking up his board and heading down the ally at a run.

***

Ever since the incident with the jails, Clopin's tribe had been wondering, with curiosity, suspicion, or both, what his connection was with a noble woman. Some thought she may have tricked him into trusting her, but to some this seemed very unlikely. It was argued back that Clopin did tend to have a weak spot where women were concerned. As cunning as he could be, he at times was too distracted by other aspects of a woman to notice things like her motives. And some less contemplative chalked it up to a sexual conquest who must now have a soft spot for _him_.

Clopin himself was personally sick of the whispers and hushed conversations of speculation. He'd been honest with them when he'd said she was a friend, but now they all wanted to know why. Knowing they would question his wisdom all the more if he admitted the kind of relationship they had, he refused to reveal it. At least they hadn't seen her face. He didn't trust them not to find ways to exploit her somehow.

Just then, a gypsy beggar called in through the fabric of Clopin's tent. "A message, Chief."

He could tell it was a beggar because his throat sounded well-used; all that calling and crying and attempts at woe would do that to a man. "Come."

He presented the scrap of paper with the symbol. "She says she knows more."

Clopin looked up in surprise. "Indeed?" he asked thoughtfully. "A noble woman gave this to you?"

He nodded.

Clopin suddenly clutched the man's neck and threw him down onto the floor. In a low voice he commanded, "Listen well: you will forget her face. You will never approach her unless I command it. You will mention neither this message nor she who gave it you to anyone here. If I hear of gypsies recognizing her and approaching her, I will know exactly who to blame, and who to punish."

The beggar nodded hurriedly. "My word, Chief."

Clopin released him and was about to tell him to go, when the beggar said, "There's just one more thing, Chief."

Clopin looked expectantly.

"She told me to bring her something to prove I'd spoken to you."

He sighed and thought for a moment, then plucked a small stray bell, recently detached from one of his festival costumes, from a trunk and handed it to the beggar.

***

Usually Clopin took a day or two to turn up, so the Baroness was astonished to find him at her doorstep on the same day. "Are things so bad?" she asked him.

"We are anxious to understand why this is happening. I must know how to act."

She nodded and she led him into the parlor.

"I believe you have something of mine?"

She grinned and handed him the bell. "If you have so much desire for it."

"Madame, do not underestimate the value of a good bell."

She chuckled uncertainly. "Then…I shan't."

"It's good advice to live by." His tone suddenly became solemn and focused. "Anyhow, what have you learned?"

"Ah, yes…I was visited by a cousin of mine, a duchess from the eastern part of Germany, close to the seat of the Emperor. She goes to court frequently. I took the opportunity of casually asking how the politics went, and like the gossip she is, she told me quite a lot. Much was trifling 'who fancies who', but there were also details important to understanding your situation"

"Well?"

"How much do you want to hear?"

"All that you think has any importance."

"Very well. As you may or may not know, Emperor Frederick is not at his best. He is beginning joint rule with his son, Maximilian. Rome and the Pope have been pushing for a reformation of the Holy Roman Empire, which Frederick III has not desired. But since his health has declined significantly, Maximilian has taken to compromising with the Pope, who is desirous of extending the Inquisitions as a means to restore the ideal of a single _Corpus christianum_, one Christian collective body. Until recently, the German interference in France has not held the title of an Inquisition."

"Until now?"

"In a sense. It has not been formally issued. The previous Pope made allowances for Ferdinand of Spain to hold his own Inquisition headed by the monarchy. I would guess someone in authority here in France decided they might take up the idea."

"Why would they not seek the same approval? The Christians here are maniacal about that kind of prestige, getting personal approval from the Pope himself."

"But the difference is that the Papacy's Inquisitions are focused on heretical philosophies of Christianity. The Spanish monarchy has free reign to _inquire_ after any person or group they see fit. They've already gone after groups of Jews and Moors."

After some silence, Clopin asked if France was making a similar deal.

"I did not hear that. But someone in authority here is clearly taking bold steps, creating a holy inquisition where it's not been approved. It's a high offense to speak for the church or especially the Pope when one has no permission."

"Indeed…" Clopin's wheels were turning. "If we found out who it was making a mess in the Pope's territory, we could expose him."

She winced. "But…how could you do that? Who would listen?"

"It wouldn't be gyspies they were listening to."

She paused for a moment, then realized. "Me?" she laughed, "A gypsy is one thing, but a woman is not far behind."

"Your husband?"

She thought. "He is devoted enough. But the situation must indeed be obvious and severe for him to take action against the very people he sees as keeping moral order in Paris."

After a moment or two, Clopin noted quietly, "Emilian said he saw a Spanish Domincan friar or two in his time at the jail."

She stared. "Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Seeking Spanish advice, perhaps?"

She said nothing, but sighed. Clopin, despite the anxiety he was feeling at the possibility of just how bad the situation could get in Paris, looked warmly at her, even allowing himself a smirk. "You're a consummate actress, you know, chalking up these terribly convincing looks of concern."

She stared again. "What?"

He chuckled. "I'm toying with you, my Lady. What I mean to express is that you seem genuine in your attempt to aid us. It is appreciated."

She was quiet and distant. "I do not like Inquisitions. They weed out all those who don't belong, all who are different, or stand up for themselves. They would have us all follow like blind, weak sheep." She paused and her conviction reared its head. "I will do anything I can to hinder them."

"You have seen their results," Clopin concluded.

"I have seen burnt bodies, mostly women, Jews, even intellectuals. They were not bodies of invaders, or those who meant us harm. They were peaceful citizens, the victims of whole towns pointing fingers to save themselves. I ask you, is this what God wants?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Clopin replied, as ever in grim conversation, in a joking tone. "How should I know? Never met him, myself."

Her stony face broke into a smile as she shook her head. "I wish I could make light of things the way you do."

"It takes practice in the face of frightening things. Levity, now that is a true godsend."

She smiled, and Clopin admired it. With his characteristic clever look, he proposed, "Let a poor gypsy spend an evening by your fire? After all, I could be dead or in prison by tomorrow."

t


	11. Wheelings and Dealings

part 11

A/N: Please let me know (via review, of course) if you think my summary is misleading. I had a couple people say they thought they wouldn't be interested in this story, then read it and found it completely different than expected. So if you think I should change my summary, I would really appreciate it if you, my beloved readers, could tell me so. Thank you!!! (PS. if anyone has an actual suggestion for a summary, don't be shy about sharing it! ^_^)

* * *

January the 6th, known to the peasant-folk as the Feast of Fools, or the Festival of Fools, or any number of other derivatives, dawned with a frosty mist which would on any other day have been a great discouragement to anyone with a desire to go out of doors, but not on this day. For the lower classes, of which there was a significant amount, this was a day on which all rules of society and decorum could be safely and totally violated without need for repentance or accountability. For the small percentile that was the noble class, it was a quaint form of entertainment in which they could watch the veritable freak show of foolish and sometimes vile common folk. "Ann" and Johann attended with an entourage of other local nobles and even some diplomats from Austria. Ann contemplated how successful this year's festival would be, since the gypsies were under threat. But surprisingly enough they turned out en force and, luckily, the law seemed content to allow them the day.

It was a strange thing to Ann to see Clopin as a performer once again. She had almost forgotten how she'd originally noticed him, since in the last several months she had come to see him as a sharp strategist, a man of shadows and disguises, and an adventurous lover. It struck her as extremely comical now to see him as the clownish compère,* playing a caricature or an exaggeration of himself. He was effortlessly able to keep the crowd warm with his wit and humor, and he had made his entrance by sliding through the legs of one of the flag-bearing monks. Perhaps her dread that this event would turn particularly ugly was unfounded.

Only a short time after these thoughts had crossed her mind, however, a dancing gypsy woman was already tempting fate by becoming rather too bold with authority, teasing the Judge Frollo in a way that was clearly mocking. Her eyes shot over to Clopin and she could see his eyes taking on that familiar wariness. It seemed a possibility the woman would get a scolding for her risk.

Clopin certainly hadn't meant for the crowd to turn ugly on Quasimodo. In his mind, it was only in good fun putting him on the spot. He'd thought that given the day of the year, no one would object, at least not enough to do the dehumanizing acts that occurred soon after his crowning of the King of Fools. And then Esme, his cousin, had done yet another thing that made him simultaneously beam with dastardly pride and furious with the risk she put herself in. Openly defying Frollo, she'd cut the poor thing loose and spoken far too freely to the Judge himself. He'd hoped that today of all days they could live without fear of the law, as they always had. Obviously now that was impossible, and giving a gypsy signal of retreat, he dashed.

Ann's heart sank in her chest as she heard Frollo's shout to the guards and suddenly, there was chaos. Between gypsies trying to escape, soldiers in pursuit, drunks and ordinary citizens trying to get away from the anarchy, Ann was separated from Johann and the others. A noblewoman alone in a rampaging crowd was no safe thing, and the next thing she knew some heavy, drunk man was practically on top of her, his hands roaming all over her, smelling of sweat, dirt and beer and before she knew what she was doing she shoved him away and began slapping him in the face in her rage and fear, shouting Godless words his direction. Suddenly, someone else grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the crowd. A glint of purple and golden-yellow and she knew it was Clopin. "Excuse me, good rapscallion, but by tradition _I_ get first choice!"

The drunk staggered, trying to find his balance. "Of course, Clopin, take her. She likes it rough." The surrounding crowd laughed wildly. Ann was about to give a furious reply when the gypsy answered, "I thank you," removed his mask and kissed her hard. More laughter, whoops and jeers. He saluted them with his feathered hat, wished them luck in avoiding guards and with his hand firmly around her waist, hurried her into a deserted alleyway. As he'd expected, she had words for him.

"_What_ in _God's name_ makes you think you can humiliate me like that?" she gasped. "Especially in front of such people!"

"Ah…'such people.'"

"Did you not see the wine-besotted drunk with his hands all over me? _Those_ 'such people'!" She was furious, and he understood.

"Ann! Cherie, listen! I have no wish to humiliate you, but unless I convinced them that I was merely taking my share of the spoils, there would be questions! It's bad enough my own people suspect me for my association with a noble woman; I don't need all of Paris wondering why I'd bother to save you!"

She still fumed, but merely sat down on an old wooden box and said nothing. For a few moments there was silence. Clopin sat down next to her. "Ann, I am sorry I had to do that."

She shook her head and replied quietly that she understood.

"Besides, I guarantee you they're all too drunk to remember."

She scoffed.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, and she did not object. It was a strange thing to see her vulnerable and he couldn't help feeling protective. "Peace now, no one will dare approach you when you're with me."

She let out a humorless laugh. "I had no idea you had such power over the commonwealth."

"Over the lower class, the underworld, yes, I have some influence."

"It disquiets me; how little power we have once we step out of our respective circles."

"I know the feeling." He kissed her forehead and gently pulled her away from his embrace. "Come. I will go with you to find your people."

After some time, Clopin spotted Merta and saw Ann meet with her safely. A common man might question Ann's ability to physically resist him, but one stony look from the serving woman was enough to deter anyone.

***

Then began the Burning of Paris. Frollo laid siege to the entire city in his obsessive search for gypsies and Esmeralda. More and more Romani poured into the Court of Miracles seeking security from the relentless sounds of marching soldiers, fire, and horses. Clopin spent hours in his tent, scouring his brain for what could be done. Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his two forefingers, he asked himself over and over. No one dared approach him on the subject, as the last person to do so got an entire trunk hurled at him. It infuriated him how helpless they were, how helpless _he_ was, to deter this threat. However formidable the lower class was capable of being, they were disparate and clung to their tribal allegiances. He had only a short time ago consulted with other underworld leaders, but they were either of the mind that this was purely a gypsy problem or they were yet too fearful to take action. For now, they were alone in a fight against a macrocosm of Europe's elite, money and military. He thought back more than once to Ann's words: _It disquiets me; how little power we have once we step outside our respective circles_. He could fight many things in many ways, but how did a band of gypsies stand against a man in whom Rome itself had placed its faith? These were foreign waters, and he needed someone to tell him the way of the current.

Cursing, Clopin made his way back through the catacombs, having just wasted his time in trying to meet with the Baroness. He couldn't say he blamed the owners of the estate, given the current circumstances, but there were now guards posted all over the property. And what was worse, dear Johann was home. He eased his bitter attitude with the thought of Ann's bored countenance while her husband attempted lovemaking. He did feel pity for the woman, but it was a funny picture.

As soon as he arrived within the Court's walls, he was immediately accosted by Emilian, who had news.

"What did you hear? Speak quickly!"

"It is only some small matter, Chief…"

"Every detail matters at this point, my friend. Say on."

"It was Frollo and his friend, von Bergen, conversing at Frollo's house. At first they were discussing religion and such stuff, but they were arguing about much of it. Von Bergen brought up the subject of Frollo's hunt for Esme. He didn't like how irrational it was making Frollo look and threatened to back out of their arrangement if less destructive measures weren't taken. They argued for a long time about this and Frollo threw him out."

Clopin was a little disappointed that it wasn't more useful, but dissent in the ranks gave him at least something to think about exploiting. Frollo did appear rather mad these days. Could Rome support the acts of a madman? After a few moments contemplating this, Clopin asked Emilian coolly, "What manner of Christian is that bastard von Bergen? What did you gather from their conversation? Did they mention anything about, say…an Inquisition?"

Emilian stared at hearing the feared word. "Inquisition? …Not specifically, but they did make mention of certain procedure for the conversions. They fought most fiercely about this. Von Bergen is a true Papist, chief; he seems to like everything done very procedurally and by the book." He could tell Emilian was struggling to remember anything useful.

"Yes? Yes?" Clopin goaded.

"Well…ah…"

"Did Frollo do anything after von Bergen left?"

"Yes, he went angrily to a large chest and took a large book from it, started reading. That's all I saw."

"What did it look like?"

"Leather-bound, rather fancy-looking."

"What about his other books? Did you see any of those?"

Emilian didn't understand what his king was looking for and stammered whatever he could think of. "Uh…well…they're all about the same size…all black or brown, some new, some old…not like the fancy one."

Clopin nodded and patted his comrade's shoulder. "Rest easy, Emilian; you have done well. Now go warm yourself at the fire and get something to eat."

Now Clopin was certain he had to meet with Ann, somewhere somehow. At some point, all of this would blow over and there would be an opportunity for someone to accuse Frollo of any number of things. It didn't matter what was true; this was a society of hear-say and if gypsies were to be brought down by rumors of devilry, then so would Frollo. The key was being able to penetrate the circles of the upper class and there spread his venom.

***

Clopin knew that Merta at least, if not the Baroness as well, must come out to the marketplace for goods every few days. Positioned near an alleyway and dressed as a hooded beggar, he watched for her. Finally one morning he spotted her, arguing as always with every vendor about the declining quality of the produce. Once she turned his corner, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the alley. She would have screamed but for the hand over her mouth. She struggled and kicked and successfully landed an elbow in Clopin's ribs. He steeled himself against the pain, though he gave a low grunt, and was finally able to turn her around and show his face. Once she saw who he was, she calmed herself but her face was set in extreme irritation and she slapped him across the face. "What the devil's got into your head? What you think you're doing, attacking old ladies? Serves you right."

"Listen, Merta," he rubbed his face where she'd hit him, "I had no other way to get your attention without the guards taking particular interest in me. I need you to give a message to your Lady that I must speak with her urgently."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, now that chaos is spreading through the land and we all have a hundred other things to worry about, you need to get into her sheets?"

His patience was wearing severely. "Merta, these are no bedroom matters. Now _will you tell_ her?"

She scrutinized him and replied dryly, "Fine, then. I shall. No guarantee she'll risk her neck for you, coming out here."

"That's all I ask."

With a curt nod, she continued back on her way, leaving Clopin to wonder if his trump card would give him his winning hand.

***

Despite his concern that she indeed might not dare to leave her estate, she did come out to the marketplace with Merta. Down a deserted street, Clopin, still dressed as a hooded beggar, relayed all he had heard regarding Frollo and von Bergen. She listened contemplatively. "It seems they may have been arguing over procedure. It seems likely from all that we have heard, that Frollo is attempting to create his own Inquisition. He may have acquired one of the books on inquisitorial methods and standards. If that is the case, von Bergen would most certainly object to it."

"You know him?"

"Of course. He is a German nobleman; it goes without saying."

Clopin was irritated. "Why did not say so before?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Because you never asked."

"Fine, fine," he relented.

"Von Bergen, as your source said, is indeed a very Papal man. He has strong connections to the Vatican and it's there his loyalty lies; however, he is not a fool and does not usually listen to hearsay, especially when it deals with his colleagues. He is a man of proof when it comes to earthly things. If you want him to turn on Frollo, some manner of evidence must be presented."

"What about other Barons? Are they as immune to hearsay?"

"It's very possible they aren't. I know their wives aren't, in any case." She understood what Clopin was suggesting. "I will do my best to spread ideas around. But these things sometimes take a little time; I cannot be obvious."

He looked at her gravely. "Do what you can."

She looked at him reassuringly. "Naturally."

***

A week later, the rumors were spreading. The best thing, in the Baroness' eyes, was that the ideas planted by her intertwined gracefully with the other dozen or so rumors regarding Frollo's sanity, his obsessiveness, and even his particular fixation on the gypsy woman. The problem was, it would take much longer for the rumors to reach the Vatican and she doubted Paris could afford to wait. Presently, the Baroness gazed out a grand window in the dining hall of her estate, staring at the glow of yet another fire. Her husband was mulling over his wine behind her.

"Does it not bother you that you place so much faith in a man who is burning his own city?"

Johann looked up. "You mustn't trouble yourself with such, my wife. It is not for you."

"Do you think he means to begin an Inquisition?"

Johann sighed. "Of course not. Frollo is a devout man; he would not be so bold."

"I heard he has one of the Inquisitorial Books."

"My dear, you mustn't listen to gossip. Besides, I have been to his house and seen no such book. It would be very distinct as I'm sure you could guess; much richer than any of his humble books. Put it out of your mind. As I said, it is not for you to worry over such."

"Even so, I do not like the sight of fire on the horizon."

He stood and came near her, looking out the window as well. "Nor do I, I must admit. But Frollo's supposed madness may yet be an act of God. Is he not smiting down those who threaten our _Corpus christianum_?"

"Fire chooses no specific race, nor does it know the virtuous from the fiend."

Johann seemed merely to sip blithely at his wine and after a few minutes of silence, merely said, "I'll come to your bedchamber this night. My astrologer says the moon is well placed for conception." With that, he headed upstairs.

Loathe to follow, the Baroness' face contorted slightly with contained resentment and rebelliously continued her stare out the window, feeling trapped and powerless. Suddenly, she tore herself from the window and went to the kitchen, where Merta and a servant girl were cleaning up.

"A word, Merta."

They moved down the small servant's corridor where the Baroness whispered, "I need you to deliver a message to Clopin."

Merta sighed, "My lady, it bothers me none that you and this man are having it off, but in these times-"

"I have not yet told you what the matter concerns." Her voice was unusually steely.

Merta silenced her objections. "Yes, Madame. I'm sorry, t'was too bold of me."

"I need you to tell him, if you can find him, that he must make sure that Frollo's book is found. I am sure that it is what we need."

"Is that all, then, Madame?"

She nodded. "Go to market tomorrow."

Merta clearly did not like this idea whatsoever. Having been put down by her mistress, she would not object further, but she had to ask, as one used to being in the Lady's confidence, "My dear, forgive me for asking, but to what end is all this wheeling and dealing? You risk everything by these acts!" she whispered, a rare concern in her face.

The Baroness was quiet, but it was a strained quiet telling of louder things happening in her mind and body, simmering under the surface. "For every night that I must go to bed with the man I had to marry, for every day that I must sit in peace and quiet and waste my life, I tell you…this one time I will act on my will, and I will do what is supposedly barred from me. This one time I shall have power over Men's fates."

"A soul might think you seek revenge for your sex."

With a cocked eyebrow and a curt nod, she responded coldly, "Let a soul think that."

* * *

*A/N: compère – a host or master of ceremonies


	12. Temp Chapt: responses!

Hello there,

To some who have been asking questions, I want to provide some answers in this temporary "chapter."

No worries - I am not abandoning the story. I have an outline for the end of this which I never got to writing because, since the last chapter, I have had to move out of Korea and return home to NY after a year, so I have been busy with things like a bit of culture shock and looking for work, looking at grad schools, etc. Plus I have begun a story which I am planning to turn into an actual publishable (?) book and which I am really obsessing over.

To Pandora: pieces of the movie and book plot intertwined will become the background of the future plot, but not the main seat of my action. As to the confusing change of scene, I agree with you completely. I have tried multiple times to put that space there but the formatting apparently just doesn't want it there. *shrug*

To SiValesBeneESt: thank you so much for the improved and contemporary German! As soon as I get off my ass I will implement it. I used to be rather good at German (so long ago) but obviously the archaic stuff is a whole other story. Thanks again!

Lastly – THANK YOU THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed and given me feedback. It's a surprisingly rare thing and it says a lot that you liked it enough to say so. I'm so flattered that my writing has managed to interest you and keep your attention. That being said, I also beg your patience. As I said before, I am currently in the throes of another story being born (set in the theater world of 1930s Dublin). I fully intend to continue this one once my current project calms down a little bit.


	13. Death and Judgment

A/N: Again, big thanks for everyone's support! It certainly motivated me to (finally!) punch this chapter out.

SiValesBeneEst: I have implemented your superior German to my 8th chapter. Much appreciated. After reading my second sentence once again I found it so clumsy it was laughable. Props to you for having any idea what I was trying to say there. _

* * *

Death and Judgment

Merta never got the message through. She had looked, but no gypsy seemed bold enough to show their face that next day. Concerned, determined and even desperate, the Baroness was deaf to her trusted servant's pleas that she remain safely on the estate. How could she listen to talk of comfort and security when it was rebellion and fury that screamed in her ears? Wearing commoner's clothes, she went to look herself. Merta was no fool, but she was not savvy to gypsy ways. Nevertheless, every usual place for gypsies to beg or perform or consort was deserted, like paintings whose main subjects were absent, leaving only the background. There was only one more place to look and, though she had hope, a slow burn of disappointment began in her abdomen. As she turned the corner, preparing herself for the final blow of hopelessness, she saw, to her great astonishment, that same beggar she had used as a messenger before. He saw her and seemed to recognize her, but he said nothing and merely stared at the street before him. She approached and said in a quiet voice. "I need your help once more."

Still he said nothing.

"A message."

Nothing.

"Beggar, why do you not answer?" she hissed.

"Don't know who you are, your ladyship."

She tilted her head in disbelief. He was not very bright. "Then why do you address me thus when I'm not clothed as a lady?"

He realized his error and winced. "He told me not to remember you. Ah, well. Suppose it don't mean nothing anymore, the state of things the way they are."

"What do you mean?"

"That Judge, Frollo: he found the Court of Miracles. Broke in. Captured everyone but a small few."

"The Court of Miracles?"

He looked back warily. "You mean you've never heard of it? Some gypsy-friend you are."

"I know what it is! I just…didn't know it was real…" Her eyes bore down on him intensely. "Tell me what happened. Did you see?"

"Our Chief put up a good fight, he did. Killed about ten soldiers with a scythe before he got put in irons. Took their heads and their limbs clean off."

Her eyes became less fierce as she grew slightly taken aback. It was hard to think of her warm Clopin in an act so bloody.

"My guess is, them as ain't killed will be thrown into conversion and then probably die in prison anyway."

"How many escaped?"

He shrugged. "Not many. Myself. Couple other lucky ones. Them as weren't in the Court at the time."

So that was it. She could never find them by herself. And she had no confidante, no fellow conspirator. She was on her own. She stepped back, somewhat overwhelmed by this latest information. Thanking the beggar, she gave him some coins and walked away in a daze. Everything felt so unclear. It was not her own quest, yet now she felt fully invested in usurping Judge Frollo. She somehow had to find out what the book was in his possession. But more importantly…she felt a slight tug in her chest…more importantly, there hung in the balance the life of the only person who accepted her as she was.

It had been late in the afternoon when she'd left her estate; now the dark was fast approaching. Hurrying towards the city borders, she suddenly halted in her steps. There, in the square where she had seen the gypsy Esmeralda take her bold stand against Judge Frollo, was an unlit bonfire where the same woman was tied up to be burned. An enormous crowd had gathered. As appalling as this was to her, she was only more horrified to see a cage full of gypsies nearby. Was Clopin in there? Would they burn him alive as well? Her heart pounded and something instinctive rushed through her veins. It was like feeling as an animal feels: do, don't think. Pushing her way through the square, she made her way towards the cage, though it was far on the other side. She was never going to find her way home before dark, her own voice warned her, but she couldn't care about that now. An explanation for Johann would have to be thought of later. All that mattered now was getting to that cage. She was suddenly distracted by the appearance of Frollo next to the doomed woman on the scaffold. He made predictable statements meant to turn the crowd against Esmeralda and, no longer interested in listening, she continued to fight her way through the crowd. She wouldn't let herself stop to watch in horror as she smelled the burning of oak and pine, soon to be joined by human flesh and the jarring screeches. Keep going, she told herself, don't look, keep going. She was almost there. A sudden collective shout of surprise managed to draw away her attention. She looked up and for a moment she thought she saw something flying from a precipice of Notre Dame, down and down until the rope went taught and swung towards the crowd. A large creature dropped to scaffold, snarled and roared, landing blows to the guards with sickening thuds. The creature she soon recognized as the bellringer then took an unconscious Esmeralda in his arms and swung back around to the fortress-like cathedral, climbing like an ape up its façade until he reached a balcony, held the woman high and bellowed, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"

Despite their previous attitude, the crowd cheered mightily, snapping Ann out of her gaze and back to her goal. She came to the cage quickly. She did not see Clopin. Her heart feared the worst and she wrestled with it to concentrate on what was happening around her. Chaos was breaking loose, the crowd was rioting, and as a soldier turned to shout at the mob, she snatched his keys and threw them to a surprised gypsy behind the bars. Only a moment later, the gypsies added themselves to the fray. Beginning to fear for her life, she fell into the current of people trying to get out, finally finding respite in an alley. As she panted, she looked to her right and froze, seeing other people there staring at her. Her heart pounded as she wondered what their intent was. One approached and as he came closer, she could see he was a gypsy.

"You're the one who threw the keys."

She hesitated before replying that she was.

"You have our thanks. We will not forget." They turned to go, but they were halted in their tracks as she shouted, "Wait!" An idea had suddenly occurred to her.

They waited expectantly.

"Do any of you know where Judge Frollo lives?"

"I do," one man responded.

"There is something to be investigated; something which might turn Rome itself against him."

The one who responded last strode forward, awaiting explanation.

"A book."

The man's expression grew piqued. "If it's the one I have seen, you may be speaking the truth."

Now it was her turn to be intrigued. "You are one of Clopin's spies," she concluded aloud.

He eyed her warily. "I do not know what to think of you or how you know such things. Maybe you are a friend…or maybe you have some other motive."

"Friend," someone croaked in the darkness. It was the beggar. "Chief told me not to say anything, but circumstances being what they are…" he shrugged.

The gypsy man's gaze relaxed. "I am Emilian. You will come with me to Frollo's house."

"Yes, but first I must ask," she insisted, her voice becoming quiet, "what has become of…your Chief?"

Emilian's gaze fell. "He is in the Palaise de Justice. He was to be with us this night, to witness the death of his cousin, but he attempted escape. He is receiving different punishment tonight."

Her heart dropped within her. "Will they execute him, too?" she asked flatly.

He met her gaze. "I think they mean to execute us all, and to take their time." There was silence for a moment. "Come."

They ran through the cold, dark streets, dodging fire, horses, soldiers, and fleeing citizens. Unused to running, Ann struggled to keep up with the fleet-footed Emilian and she gasped for breath when they finally stopped in front of a comfortable residence. The gypsy broke in easily and let Ann inside. In Frollo's small study there were several simple, black books. "He must have hidden it somewhere," she whispered.

"It's here," he answered, opening a chest next to the desk.

Inside were more plain books, half-burned candles, parchment paper, quills, ink, several copies of the Bible in Latin and Greek, among other miscellania. The ornate book they had been expecting was not there. They looked up at each other. "Maybe he hid it somewhere else," she offered.

"No, I saw him take it out of this chest. It must be here somewhere." Then Emilian did something she did not expect in the slightest: he began rapidly tossing all of the chest's contents out onto the floor before becoming fed up and unceremoniously dumping whatever was left. He tapped the bottom of the chest with his fingers, listening. Then he pounded it with his fist, and the wood shuddered. He looked up at her again, this time with a smirk of triumph, and he pulled away the wooden board which only looked like the bottom of the chest. Underneath lay the very book Ann had prayed it would be.

* * *

Ann was escorted by gypsies back to her estate and she entered to a terrible shouting from Merta. Her ladyship was extremely fortunate, Merta had bellowed, that her lord had made the decision to stay at the hunting lodge with his companions rather than return home this night, else there would be hell to pay! Ann accepted her complaints with indifference. She glowed with power and relished a practically tangible feeling of tightening a noose. It was all that could subdue the fear that threatened to steal away her wits when she thought of what fate awaited Clopin.

* * *

Johann returned the next day, full of the stories he had heard as he returned home through the city of the previous night's bedlam. In his zealotry, Frollo had ordered his soldiers to storm Notre Dame herself and declared war on the rioting citizens. The hunchbacked bellringer turned the cathedral against her attackers and sent down rains of fire, oil and tar and had mangled the bodies of those who tried to take the gypsy woman from his care. In the confusion, Frollo had disappeared. "Can you believe such an event? Frollo desecrating the sanctity of the church; truly he has taken a turn for the worse. I'm only too relieved that you were far from such violence and savagery, my dear."

Merta gave Ann a hard stare, which she ignored. "I agree wholeheartedly, husband," she replied lightly.

* * *

The Archbishop of Paris, infuriated by Frollo's actions against Notre Dame, whatever his reasons, sent his archdeacon to the Judge's residence to request his presence for a firm talking-to. The servant there replied that he hadn't seen his master since the last night's events and the deacon took it upon himself to casually snoop around. Everything seemed in order; there were no signs of madness here. Once in the study, however, he froze, staring hard at something.

"Everything alright, sir?" the servant inquired.

The deacon moved towards the desk and fingered a richly decorated book and read its Latin title. "I'm afraid not."


	14. Never Pure and Simple, Truth Is

Never Pure and Simple, Truth Is.

A/N: I am so excited for this chapter. Sorry it took so long, I've been agonizing over getting it just perfect. I actually wrote most of this last year and I've been waiting to implement it for ages. This is the Baroness truly coming into herself for the first time. Enjoy!

Also, **special thanks to SiValesBeneEst** for her generous research into the hierarchy of the nobility. Couldn't have got through all that German by myself! Thanks!

* * *

It was not long before the urgent message from the Archbishop of Paris reached the Vatican. The rumors had been true: Claude Frollo, a secular minister, indeed showed all the signs of planning his own inquisition and the discovery of the book of Inquisitorial Methods and Standards was the ultimate confirmation. Upon hearing the news, Pope Innocent VIII, quite put out, issued that all support given to Paris in his name, financial and otherwise, was to halt immediately. This was a bittersweet time for the gypsies: the threat of an inquisition had gone, but the Court of Miracles' whereabouts had been uncovered and the gypsies scattered in an effort to find safe haven. Unfortunately, no impromptu hideaway was as good or effective as their old one, and many found themselves again in the clutches of the law as the current ministers, while perhaps not as extreme as their former leader had been, still believed in what Frollo coined "the gypsy menace." As for Judge Frollo, it was reported by Baron von Bergen to his superiors that he had met his death by some violent means in the tumult several nights previous.

One Judge Gruyere, trying to make a name for himself and likely vying for leadership made it known that it was under his orders that guards had captured who they thought to be the very gypsy king himself: Clopin Trouillefou. (Any of those familiar with his capture in the Court of Miracles, however, knew this to be outright propaganda meant to favor the aspiring Judge.) Desiring to break the gypsy network at its strongest point, Gruyere announced that once found guilty, Clopin would be publicly made an example of. Of course, that could have meant anything from burning or hanging to an assortment of any number of ghastly tortures. The Paris tribe of gypsies made a hasty attempt at rescue, but because they were scattered and divided, the plan was ill-executed, as Emilian was now quickly realizing. Signaling retreat, he and those that were left of his companions fled the Palaise. Escaping the pursuing guards, he pushed hot breath into the cold air in front of him, his chest splitting with cold and failure. He soon found the correct cellar door and made a tapping rhythm on its decaying wood. It opened for him and he slipped inside.

"Emilian! What happened?" Esmeralda asked urgently as other gypsies crowded in to hear.

He threw off his shabby cloak in rage and despair. "We tried. We did everything we could, but there was no way to get him out."

"There must be some way! Emilian, I can't have his blood on my hands-" she was nearing hysterics.

He grasped her tightly by the wrists. "This is not your fault."

"This is _all_ my fault! If I'd had the sense not to provoke Frollo that day-"

"This would all have happened anyway! Esme, listen: Clopin knows that the ministers are the devils here, not you. His blood is on the their hands."

There was silence for a moment. Tears streamed down Esmeralda's face. Finally she looked back into Emilian's face. "Is there no hope for him, then?"

Emilian averted his gaze and clenched his jaw. "None that I can see."

* * *

In the courtroom of the Palaise de Justice, the King of the Truands was caged and guarded as he stood trial for an assortment of charges both true and trumped up. It really didn't matter: they would find him guilty regardless. But he would go down making it as difficult as possible and he'd already nearly spent his wit coming up with the most scathing and humiliating remarks and hurling them jovially at the assembly. Suddenly, the large doors of the courtroom boomed as someone made their entrance. Judge Gruyere stood at the disruption. "What is this? By what authority are you here?"

Clopin was astounded to see the Baroness, _his _Baroness, heading straight to the front bench at which the lawyers sat, a servant placing some large, somber books on the long table there with a thud.

"I demand to know, Madame, under what pretense are you present here?"

"It is no pretense that I am mistress of my husband's barony and I have a rightful place in this court."

There was murmuring amongst the group of lawyers and other judges, nearly all corrupt politicians she knew had not run a trial in pursuit of truth even once in their lives. "Even so, you are a Lady and as such this is no proper thing for one so delicate to -"

She interrupted forcefully but kept a business-like tone. "I am my husband's representative in this affair, as he is away in Rome on business. If you care for his support and good opinion, it would be wise to oblige him. My husband is a practical and orderly man and he did not marry me for my girlish charms, Monsieur. Remember I am not some silly French ingénue; I am a German." Her gaze gave every impression that he was out of his depth.

One of the Judges addressed her meekly, "Madame Ingrid von Bergen, as Baroness of -"

"Speak up, man, I know my titles."

Clopin's face expressed a stunned silence. Ingrid _von Bergen_. His Baroness was… _Ingrid von Bergen_! He fumed and churned at the very distinct possibility that he'd been duped; fooled into caring for and even trusting this woman he'd taken to bed with him on so many occasions: wife of one of his most hated enemies. And now she stood to do…what? Would she now take all she knew and use it to throw him to the wolves? Could she really have acted out all that rebellion, all that passion and discontent? There lay the glimmer of the other possibility. He had never sensed pretense or deceit from her behavior. What if he had seen the notorious woman for who she really was? It was either that…or he had been caught in a deadly snare; tricked yet again by a pretty face.

Gruyere continued his debate with her. "With respect, Madame…you nor your barony has a place in this court any longer."

"That remains to be seen."

"You may be unaware, Madame, that his patronage is by Papal order no longer allowed."

"His holiness the Pope and Maximilian II are placing great consideration on the idea of keeping my husband's role here; perhaps not in a position of patronage, but certainly to keep an eye on the Pope's interests in Paris...as well as her government." She eyed them pointedly.

"Though I would never doubt the authority of His Holiness, a Baron is not high enough in office to carry such authority."

"Then you will be assured to know that, as the Duke of Württemberg has produced no heir, it will be the Emperor's desire to style my husband with that duchy. As Duchess von Württemberg, which I will very soon be, I dare say I will hold enough authority to satisfy. It would be an unwise thing to start this new sort of friendship off on the wrong note, nicht wahr?*" Her eyes dared him to debate her further.

The courtroom grew quiet with a new tension. Some of the ministers exchanged looks.

_Well, that's settled._ Her tone became softer and more refined, but her iciness was palpable. "Now, under the law I am to be treated just as if I were the Baron himself. Do not think that if I am treated less he will not hear of it, as will his Holiness the Pope."

There were a few beats of quiet as the ministers comprehended the delicacy of their position. "Our apologies, Madame," minister continued, his tone rather more complying and gentile. "Of course you are very welcome to these hearings. We will do you every honor which we would your husband."

"I thank you." Her iciness was not placated. "Now allow me to do some honor by you," she addressed the assembly, "that is, to _save_ your honor in this matter, for the trial you are about to hold is one that will make you all look like fools; especially in the eyes of those you mean to terrorize: the gypsies." She stood again and walked over to the cage and looked at Clopin dispassionately. "You are trying the wrong man."

There were murmurs at this statement, and Clopin felt a sudden surge of anticipation, though his gaze remained suspicious and hard.

She continued quickly. "I know that in matters of order and the maintenance of the authority of the state, this is a trifling thing. An example made is an example made; however, you have made claims about the impact this man's death will have on the gypsy networks. In this, sadly, you will be shown very wrong."

Some Judges were not taking this well and became outraged at her boldness. "With respect, _Madame_…by what source and by what proof can you make this claim? What makes you believe that you above all of us can know the truth of this matter?" Other judges called out their agreement in his opinion and his outrage. It was bad enough they were being called fools let alone by a woman, whatever her status.

She never flinched. "Under orders from his highness Frederick III, my husband conducted research into the matter of the society of the gypsies, if one may call it that. From paid spies we were able to garner information regarding their hierarchy. As to the matter of Clopin Trouillefou, supposedly the gypsy leader, we have found…that there is no such man."

The floor instantly burst into commentary and argument. The Judge pounded his gavel. "Silence! I will hear this explanation, Madame, and you had better give a grand one."

She met his gaze disinterestedly at his threat. "I hope for your sake that you meant nothing by that, Monsieur Judge. Granted all that the name of von Bergen has given Paris, it would be highly foolish to doubt that we have Paris' best interests at heart."

The Judge was still suspicious and angered, but he backed off slightly. "I merely meant that such an explanation, to hold water, would have to be grand indeed to account for its claim, Madame."

The Baroness explained. "You are all too aware of the trickster ways of the gypsies in dealing with outsiders. They may be heathens, but they are not stupid. Our hired informants recalled to us that, on separate occasions where Clopin Trouillefou was asked for, more than five different men were said to be this so-called gypsy king. Initially, we believed this a tactic to protect the identity of their leader; however we soon discovered that Clopin Trouillefou is a completely fictional identity and the true leader of the Parisian gypsies has never been named; perhaps the greatest gypsy trick ever played on our authority."

There was more commotion on the floor in reaction to this information. Banging his gavel in frustration, Gruyere shouted for silence. "Madame, if this is true, then why have you not condescended to share this information with the Parisian state?" He was in rage.

"Because, Monsieur Judge, to be perfectly frank, your Judge Claude Frollo carried out state affairs like a man touched in his upper works: burning down half of Paris, besotted with a gypsy woman, illegally claiming _Papal authority_. Our operation was delicate and we could not afford his blind aggression in this matter. Irrationals cannot be afforded where order must be enforced. I can be assured, I trust, that you will be a more controlled and sensible man in such dealings."

She had placated him somewhat. "You have my assurances, Lady, that I will have a steadier hand than my predecessor."

"Now, as to the matter of this particular gypsy, I am afraid we must let him go."

More outrage. Gruyere glared, "And what of your 'order'? After your preaching you would have us let this charlatan go?"

"Indeed. He falls into the category of the vagrant populace and has no citizenry, I know," she said, leafing through one of the books. "But according to the _Laws Regarding Vagrants and Foreigners_ he is allowed temporary asylum so long as he remains in respectable employ."

The floor laughed at this. "Respectable-? Madame, with all due respect, you must think us simpletons indeed. Gypsies only ever employ _each other_! Whoever may have said he is employed with them is clearly a gypsy supporter, no doubt a criminal himself!"

"Indeed? You say I am a criminal? Or even more absurdly, a gyspy?"

There was silence.

"I am his employer, Monsieur. He was my personal spy. Thanks to you, I shall have to find a new use for him."

"Madame…what need have you with a spy?"

"A woman of my connections is not invincible, Gruyere. Even I must protect my interests. As to what those may be, that is a private, not legal affair. Now, have I left anything un-discussed?" She looked down her nose at the assembly, who remained quiet. "I should say not." She concluded.

Judge Gruyere glared at her as she looked at him expectantly. There were a few very palpable moments of dead silence. Reluctantly and with ire in his voice, he declared "on this day, February the 1st in the year of our Lord 1482, the prisoner is found innocent and will be set about his business."

Clopin stared in astonishment from the cage as guards came to let him out.

"And since you prematurely decided to torture him, I believe he is to be offered a small sum for his wrongful detainment according to the laws of-"

"_Yes,_ Madame Baroness, thank you." He was clearly sick of her. "This trial is adjourned."

Ingrid von Bergen, having sent her servant ahead, now walked alone on the streets of Paris. Though her head rang with the memory of what happened on the other occasions she'd taken to the road alone, she wished to brood alone on what she had done. Her heart had pounded in her chest the entire time, but apparently they had not seen it. Now, able to be something other than a face of stone, her adrenaline poured through her, slowly relenting the further she walked. She thought she should have felt her victory, but she only felt blank. She had saved Clopin from torment, but she had seen his face when her name was uttered. As much as she had in fact stood by him in his time of need, betrayal was written deep in his features in that moment. Likely, she would never see him again. Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm and pulled her into an alleyway. She screamed and fought, but a hand covered her mouth and struggled against her thrashing arms.

"For God's sake, _cherie_, for all your wisdom, you don't know that you should watch for criminals in the streets?" The voice was familiar and as she opened her eyes, she exhaled, somewhat put out. "Clopin!" she panted from her momentary adrenaline. "You gave me a fright. After what I've done today, a kidnap and questioning would not be entirely unexpected."

He merely stared hard at her. "Was it true?"

She met his gaze soberly, a tinge of guilt in her eye. "I _am_ Ingrid von Bergen."

"And the spies in the Court of Miracles?"

"Johann did place spies, but it was a year ago and I believe you caught them."

"Ah yes, those three," he recalled, crossing his arms. "Well you should tell darling Johann that he should pay for more intelligent spies. We knew them from the first."

"And of course, there _is_ a gypsy king named Clopin Trouillefou."

His iciness melted as he cracked a smirk. "And yet you convinced them that there wasn't." He paused. "You were very clever."

She shook her head and smiled modestly at what she felt was a glimmer of admiration in his voice. "I can't believe I made them believe me."

"I mean it; you could easily be as good a charlatan as any of us."

"I thought 'a gadje is a gadje.'"

"That's still true, but gadjes don't usually risk themselves saving a gypsy, especially with the name like yours attached to them."

"I wasn't going to stand by when I had the power to act." There was something in her eyes.

"Madame…Ingrid von Bergen," he laughed as he said her name "…I think you are very much in danger."

She looked serious. "Of what?"

"Of being very much in love with me," he teased, caressing her shoulder.

Her pride kicked in and she pushed his hand away. "How dare you make such a presumption!" she laughed. "A woman like me in love with a scoundrel like you? The idea is not to be borne!"

He laughed heartily at her outrage, knowing she only half meant it. "Isn't it?" he asked, changing the tone and pressing his body against her.

"Of course it is…" she whispered, feeling his closeness very keenly. Wrapping her arms around him, he suddenly winced and she felt something damp and sticky on his back. When she pulled her hands back, there was blood on them. For a moment she was stunned, but then looked at him sympathetically. "They whipped you."

He shrugged. "They did, and worse, too. But burning to death; that is something I was not prepared to handle. You don't get any practice, you see. It's a one-time performance."

Her face told him she didn't understand how he could make so light of it.

He drew in close. "Would you like to nurse me back to health, Ingrid?" he whispered, a smile on his mouth.

"You don't want me to nurse you," she laughed softly before her mouth met his.

* * *

A/N: More to come! Stay tuned!

*_nicht wahr?_ – not true?/Is it not so?


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